


Interregnum

by Admiral_Byzantium, DrMckay



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Legends - All Media Types, Star Wars Legends: Thrawn Trilogy - Timothy Zahn, Star Wars Legends: X-Wing Series - Aaron Allston & Michael Stackpole
Genre: Action/Adventure, F/M, Gen, One year after Timothy Zahn's "The Last Command", Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-08
Updated: 2021-03-04
Packaged: 2021-03-06 15:15:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 28
Words: 154,901
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26351014
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Admiral_Byzantium/pseuds/Admiral_Byzantium, https://archiveofourown.org/users/DrMckay/pseuds/DrMckay
Summary: The tide has turned! With the death of Grand Admiral Thrawn, Councilor Leia Organa Solo guides the diplomacy of the battle-tested and confident New Republic as they take the offensive.The Empire, beset by corruption and divided amongst quarrelsome warlords, tries frantically to hold on to its remaining territory, while the Fringe elements of the galaxy take stock of the new reality. Some have sided with the New Republic, forming the Smugglers’ Alliance, while others plot to gain power by exploiting the tattered vestiges of Imperial might.On Coruscant, the capital of the New Republic, Luke Skywalker, the galaxy’s only Jedi Knight, and Mara Jade, a former Imperial agent with a troubled past, reunite while subtle foes plot from the safety of the shadows...
Relationships: Iella Wessiri/Wedge Antilles, Mara Jade/Luke Skywalker
Comments: 174
Kudos: 156





	1. Dramatis Personae

**Citizens on Coruscant**

  * Councilor Leia Organa Solo (human female from Alderaan) 
  * Chewbacca (Wookiee male from Kashyyyk)
  * Winter Retrac (human female from Alderaan)
  * Luke Skywalker (human male from Tatooine)
  * Han Solo (human male from Corellia)



**New Republic Armed Forces**

  * General Garm Bel Iblis (human male from Corellia)
  * General Crix Madine (human male from Corellia)
  * Captain Atril Tabanne (human female from Coruscant)



**Rogue Squadron**

  * General Wedge Antilles, Rogue Leader (human male from Corellia)
  * Colonel Tycho Celchu, Rogue Two (human male from Alderaan)
  * Major Derek “Hobbie” Klivian, Rogue Four (human male from Ralltiir)
  * Major Wes Janson, Rogue Five (human male from Taanab)
  * Captain Gavin Darklighter, Rogue Six (human male from Tatooine)
  * Lieutenant Myn Donos, Rogue Seven (human male from Corellia)
  * Major Nrin Vakil, Rogue Eight (Quarren male from Mon Calamari)
  * Captain Corran Horn, Rogue Nine (human male from Corellia)
  * Captain Ooryl Qrygg, Rogue Ten (Gand male from Gand)
  * Lieutenant Inyri Forge, Rogue Twelve (human female from Kessel)



**New Republic Intelligence**

  * General Airen Cracken (human male from Contruum)
  * Iella Wessiri (human female from Corellia)



**Smugglers’ Alliance**

  * Master Trader Talon Karrde (human male)
  * Mara Jade (human female from Coruscant)



**Imperial Forces**

  * Moff Vilim Disra (human male from Corellia)
  * Moff Leonia Tavira (human female from Eiattu)
  * Admiral Teren Rogriss (human male from Anaxes)
  * Captain Gilad Pellaeon (human male from Coruscant)



**Prisoners on Kessel**

  * Moff Fliry Vorru (human male from Corellia)




	2. Chapter One

The Star Destroyer _Invidious_ looked every bit like the weapon of the Empire it had been engineered to be. Sixteen hundred meters of gleaming white hull armor narrowed to a point in space, a declaration to all who would challenge the Empire that their challenge would soon come to an end.

Of course, looks could be deceiving. _Invidious_ was Imperial built, with a crew that wore Imperial uniforms. Many of them had been trained by the Empire. But no person familiar with the Imperial Starfleet at its height would mistake _Invidious_ for an Imperial warship after a quick glimpse inside. Their uniforms were not strictly Imperial regulation, the crew’s gait lacked the standard Imperial clip, and they were not the universally human personnel that would be found in Imperial service. The ship’s fighters were not standard TIEs, but had been heavily modified for added survivability and pilot comfort.

Nor was the ship’s captain, Leonia Tavira, a typical Imperial. A striking woman with black hair and violet eyes, she was possessed of a winsome demeanor and an impressively innocent and attractive smile. Or, alternatively, she was possessed of a ruthless ambition that had seen the death of many would-be rivals. She dressed to match both personas, with a casual red bandanna holding back her longish hair and twin blaster pistols on her hips. She paired this with a trim Imperial Moff’s uniform, a rank she technically held but was now long defunct. Neither her home planet Eiattu, nor the rest of the Ado sector, was any longer interested in catering to their Moff’s orders.

But the uniform was still useful. She appeared to be what she was: An Imperial who had turned pirate and who, like so many others, found herself quite enjoying the change. 

The man standing behind her watched the bridge with cold detachment, an alert bodyguard who regretted his assignment but was dedicated to it nonetheless. Dressed like a warrior from the old spacetales, an antique bronzium carapace armored his muscular build, transitioning into greaves and heavy boots that rang distinctively against the Star Destroyer’s floor plating with every step. The armor alone didn’t make the man frightening. It was the implacable mystery he seemed to exude wherever he walked. But after years of service, they knew Admiral Tavira had his unwavering loyalty, and for the gang of thugs, killers and Imperial deserters that, and the lightsaber hanging from his belt, were enough. 

None of Tavira’s bridge crew had ever seen his face, hidden as it was behind the lifelike, roaring visage of a d’oemir bear: purest white but for the brown eyes, uncannily intelligent, and utterly ruthless.

They were also nearly extinct.

He knew Tavira liked the mask. There was much she had learned from her time in the Empire, but first and foremost she had learned the value of intimidation. When she had acquired _Invidious_ from one of the loosely-independent warlords who had grown like fungal colonies after the Emperor’s death, it had not been for the vessel’s raw power, though that was certainly useful. Nor had it been because the ship was the finest possible pirate vessel. Nothing was further than the truth given the innumerable design flaws and constant maintenance demands characteristic of Star Destroyers, both serious hindrances for a pirate.

No, it was because even the boldest Rebel pilots became filled with dread at the sight of a Star Destroyer, and the planet below them was not filled with the boldest Rebel pilots. They stood together in silence as the crew in the port and starboard crew-pits rustled with anticipation, the _Invidious_ now nearing bombardment range of the desolate planet below.

“Admiral, the Administrator is calling again,” said the man at the Communications station, using Tavira’s preferred title despite the woman never seeing an Admiralty board in her spotty career. “He’s beginning to sound desperate.”

Tavira leaned toward the masked figure. “Isn’t this thrilling, my Tevas-kaar?” she asked quietly, the warmth of her hand on his shoulder utterly wasted on his armor. He remained still as a shiver of excitement went down her spine. “I suppose you can feel the anticipation and dread even better than I can,” she said after a moment, sounding jealous. 

The Tevas-kaar, who had once had a name, maintained his posture unflinchingly. If she was disappointed at his lack of response, she didn’t show it.

“Admiral, Flight Control reports that all fighters are ready for launch,” said the last man on the elevated command deck.

“Thank you, Commander,” Tavira replied briskly, turning her attention away from him. “Communications, tell the fighters to launch and assume standard escort formation. Then go wideband to the Kessel Defense Force. Tell them that if they attempt to engage, they will be destroyed. And tell them I am not interested in prisoners, but I will accept defectors.”

“Yes, Admiral.”

The pirate admiral watched as the shattered, lopsided rock of Kessel and it's far more typical moon loomed closer through the port bridge windows. “Not just yet,” Tavira mused softly to herself, too quiet for anyone but the Tevas-kaar to overhear. “Helm, put us in a geosynchronous orbit above the old Imperial base on the Garrison Moon. Guns, train all weapons on the facility but do not,” her voice dropped to a low growl, “do _not_ fire until I tell you to.”

 _Invidious_ completed its maneuver with far less speed than it could have, allowing the minutes to stretch out and the impending threat of the vessel to linger. The communications from the Administrator grew desperate. The Tevas-kaar watched as Tavira stepped back into the middle of the bridge platform, examining one of the displays with a keen tactical eye. 

“Has Doole offered his surrender?” Tavira asked, her hands folded behind her.

“No, Admiral. Should I demand it?”

“I’ll have our turbolasers do the demanding,” Tavira replied breezily. “Guns, pick a target fifty meters outside the perimeter of the base and slag it for me. Make it spectacular.”

An _Imperial-II_ class Star Destroyer carried fifteen heavy turbolaser batteries and ten individual heavy turbolaser cannons in its port broadside. Not all of _Invidious’_ turbolasers were as reliable as they ought to be, given the ship’s lack of opportunity for real maintenance, but there were more than enough. Each of the weapons trained on the prison, pinging it with targeting scanners. Then thirty-eight bursts of coherent green light lanced from their barrels, drilling deep into the stone as excess energy bled into shattering explosions. A second burst of fire slammed in after them, widening the crack as the stone glowed hot in the aftermath of scattered explosions.

“Beautiful!” Tavira said approvingly. She offered her man at Communications a cocky smile. “Comms?”

The man held his hand over his ear, listening intently. “Administrator Doole offers his unconditional surrender, Admiral,” he announced triumphantly. His own lips slipped into a grin that would be quite unacceptable in a proper Imperial environment. “At least, from all the desperate begging, I believe that is what he has offered.”

“Very good,” Tavira said, her thin smile growing broader. “Tell him to await my envoy. And tell him,” her teeth gleamed with wolfish hunger, “that if he does anything I do not like I will shatter the moon and rain large pieces of it down on his head.”

“With pleasure, Admiral,” the young man said, his own smile matching hers.

Tavira turned back to her armored bodyguard. “Well, my Tevas-kaar? Are you ready to embark on the next stage of your,” her violet eyes glowed with amusement and temptation, “loyal service?”

“I live and serve, Admiral,” he replied, his already resonant voice echoing behind the d’oemir bear mask.

“Very good.” There was no mistaking the satisfaction in her voice. “You may begin.”

* * *

The depths of Kessel were kept in perpetual darkness. This was purposeful, as the only reason the world—if the barely-habitable rock that was Kessel could be called a world, it was really more of a gigantic asteroid with an almost-but-not-quite-atmosphere—was settled at all was its native spice spiders. The creatures wiled away their existence underground in complete darkness, spinning their lucrative webs of pure glitterstim, and consuming the spice miners sent in to collect it.

Fliry Vorru had spent far too many years in that bitter darkness. It had not been all bad: the camaraderie with other prisoners, especially other Corellians, had offered some recompense on those long, treacherous days. He and his fellow inmates had even found the spice hunts preferable to other far less dangerous duties simply because of the change of pace.

The other recompense on those long days of miserable boredom had been the knowledge—the surety—that he would eventually return to civilization and resume his rise. He never doubted it, despite the hurdles that seemed to be constantly placed in his way.

Vorru had been serving a life sentence, a “gift” of the Emperor earned with the sale of far too many of Vorru’s secrets. Before that, Vorru had been the Moff of the Corellia sector, a post he had held since Palpatine had been just a Senator. The two men had understood each other's ambitions, but Palpatine would brook no rivals and had, inevitably, come to see Vorru’s charisma, competence, and ties to the galaxy’s fringes as a threat. Vorru took pride in that, even if it had led to his imprisonment. Being deemed a threat by the Emperor himself was no small feat.

Vorru’s memory of Palpatine’s cackling self-congratulation as he stripped the Moff’s rank bars from Vorru’s chest, handed him off dismissively into the hands of a pair of red armored Royal Guardsman, and then turned his back, was bitter and vivid to this day. Force or no Force, Vorru had always known Palpatine’s ego and overconfidence would doom the man in the end, and it was with that knowledge that he rode himself hard, determined never to grow as complacent as his old rival. But even after Palpatine’s fall it had taken some years for Vorru to make his first escape from Kessel.

His return to Kessel after aiding Isard was another memory that plagued him. The _Lambda-_ class shuttle descending through Kessel’s constantly escaping air, wings arching to landing configuration as they swept down to the landing pad with the smooth settling that told of extensive experience at the pilot’s yoke. Antilles had been flying of course, with Iella Wessiri seated across from him in the passenger compartment, hand riding her blaster and eyes on the base of his throat the whole way. The two had made his return to Kessel a personal project of theirs after the Rogues had taken Thyferra, settling him in the now-familiar darkened corridors, away from the prying eyes of New Republic sludgenews and extensive blackmail opportunities. Much as he despised his time here, the memory of their determined opposition brought a smile to his face. _At least I was beaten by proper Corellians, who showed me the respect my reputation deserved._

 _“You know I will get out of here again,”_ he had told them. _“I know too many people and own too many debts. Kessel could not hold me before, and it cannot hold me now.”_

Wessiri’s keenly intelligent brown eyes were her most defining feature, he remembered. She was a true Corellian; a dedicated investigator, she was meticulous and detail oriented. If she had been in CorSec while he had been Corellia’s Moff; she would have been a prized asset. The thought of setting her dogged determination on his adversaries… but in his absence Corellia had deteriorated, ending up in turn puppet of the Empire, a plaything of the Diktat, or both. Wessiri, not particularly fond of either, had joined the Rebellion and that—and his rather shortsighted decision to hitch his future to the even-more-unstable-than-he-had-realized Ysanne Isard—had made them enemies.

Isard had been the head of Imperial Intelligence, the Empress of the Empire in all but name after Palpatine’s death. She had seemed like a sure enough bet, until one saw her up close. All her intelligence, ruthlessness, and cunning couldn’t save her from her own mental instabilities.

And the first thing he had done on release was to contact her with an offer of service. It pained him only a little to admit that his own mistakes had put him back here.

 _“You may,”_ she had conceded, releasing his arm with the exquisitely painful twist of a forensic investigator who had perp-walked the wealthy and corrupt, as he stepped down the ramp of the _Lambda_ and into the hands of the waiting Kessel guards for processing. To his surprise, she hadn’t said anything more without prompting.

_“And then?”_

She had arched an eyebrow at him as the guards took his arms. _“I suggest that you run, very far away and live somewhere in peaceful obscurity. I don’t like reopening old cases.”_ And then she had turned away and strode up the ramp of the _Lambda._ The ramp had risen behind her, closing as a gesture of finality. As he had watched, pulled away by the guards, an X-wing painted in CorSec green-on-black took up an escort position as the shuttle headed for space. Horn, no doubt. _Another proper Corellian,_ he thought with rue that _almost_ turned into pride.

His mistakes were legion, yes… but his fall was also a testament to the quality of his adversaries. What Corellia under his rule, with these magnificently capable people at his command, could have been…

Wessiri had given him good advice—for a man without ambition. He intended to ignore every bit of it.

Though he was not yet decrepit, Vorru was a hair too slow now to go traipsing around in utter darkness, braving spice spiders with a pick or shovel. To avoid it he had negotiated with Moruth Doole, Kessel’s administrator, and exchanged some small credit accounts for a less strenuous confinement, doling out a new one each year of roughly equivalent wealth. The library he had been given access to was barely deserving of the name, to be sure, but it did have a number of things to recommend it besides its reading list. Most importantly, access to the Kessel computer mainframe.

There was a heavy knock on the door. Vorru looked up and over, then peered upwards, as if he could see through the ceiling and to Kessel’s orbit above. Being disturbed in the library was uncommon and it usually meant that Doole wanted something. Today, however, there was a good chance it meant something else… “Come,” he called.

The door slid open and a tall, gangly blonde figure stepped through, holding a double-barreled blaster pistol. Like everything else Arb Skynxnex owned, the blaster spoke volumes about the man; an illegal custom model, one that sacrificed accuracy, rate-of-fire, and reliability for raw power. It was not a trade-off Vorru would have made. “Vorru,” the man said in a gravelly voice. He wore an Imperial’s uniform, but without any insignia; when the prisoners had seized control of the Kessel spice facilities from the Empire, they had kept some of the paraphernalia in an attempt to maintain an official façade. Vorru would have recognized him just from his voice, but he would cut a distinctive figure even mute, with his long arms and spindly neck.

Of all the inhabitants of Kessel, Skynxnex was the most distasteful—or at least in the top-five, Vorru thought. There were uses for psychopathic sadists, but only a few and then only transiently. If it had been up to Vorru, Skynxnex would have been dead years ago.

“Can I help you?” Vorru asked calmly, adopting his best Imperial Court intonations and an air of quiet, regal confidence. It was like settling into a well-tailored suit, he thought, with the momentary concern that it might not fit after so long in the closet, followed by the relief that it still fit perfectly.

Skynxnex wasn’t impressed. “There’s an Impstar Deuce in orbit, and its _envoy_ wants to speak with you.” He scowled at him, looming forward to take full advantage of the height difference between them. Skynxnex was built like an enormous, skeletal scarecrow; Vorru was short and lean, in part thanks to Kessel’s scanty prisoner rations.

He nodded, unimpressed by Skynxnex’s attempt at intimidation. “Then we should not keep them waiting. Star Destroyers are nothing to be trifled with,” he replied. _Doole doesn’t have the Rogues and he’s an easy target, stationary on the ground. Kessel’s defense forces can’t hope to compete with even a poorly maintained Impstar Deuce_.

Skynxnex watched Vorru, his eyes dark and suspicious. For a moment, Vorru thought the taller man might shoot him just for the pleasure of it. Vorru hoped not—that would be an unsatisfactory end to such a promising beginning. Their gazes met and this time his lingered before the tall man glanced away.

Skynxnex wasn’t the only one of them who had a killer’s gaze.

The scarecrow jerked his head towards the door, then turned and stalked out of the library, ducking his head on exit. Vorru followed, spirits raised. He took a breath, reminding himself not to seem too ebullient; there were any number of ways the next few minutes could go horribly wrong. Still, he couldn’t keep a momentary smirk from his face.

  
  


The Imperial Correctional Facility—or simply the Spice Mines of Kessel to most of the galaxy—was an enormous, sprawling facility originally built by the Old Republic and perfected as a great prison of the Empire. In its heyday hundreds of thousands—some said perhaps even millions—of prisoners, mostly political dissidents, had been sent to the Spice Mines of Kessel to live out terms ranging from a few months to the rest of their natural lives (usually closer to the latter, especially given the many dangers of spice mining).

Vorru and Skynxnex walked the rough-hewn metal corridor from the library to the lift. The decades-old equipment creaked in protest, but like so much of the Old Republic’s technology it had been built to last and obeyed despite its complaints. In moments the lift was rocketing through the long tube over the grey surface of Kessel towards the prison’s central hub. Through the scorched transparisteel window of the lift they got an excellent view of the facility, a tan-and-grey plasteel edifice that seemed to stretch endlessly in every direction, hardly more appealing than Kessel’s harsh surface itself.

The central structure loomed above everything around it, looking vaguely reminiscent of the Imperial Palace on Coruscant. Four flat faces rose up out of the ground, sloped backwards at about forty-five-degree angles before coming together in a large flat top that could serve as a shuttle landing pad. Unlike the rest of the facility it gleamed, glassed and mirrored, housing the facility’s administrative offices and prison personnel.

As the elevator raced towards the center of the prison, Skynxnex watched Vorru like a hawk, his expression flickering with suspicion. Vorru also occasionally caught him glancing upwards towards the sky and trying not to look nervous, which made sense. From here, with the transparent windows of the lift that carried them offering a clear view of the sky, they could both see the gleaming white dagger shape of the Star Destroyer now in orbit above the prison. 

Skynxnex pointed his double-barreled blaster through the transparisteel at the white arrowhead shape of the Star Destroyer above. “Friends of yours?”

Vorru made a show of looking up and frowning. “I don’t have any friends with Star Destroyers. Not anymore.”

“If they’re not friends of yours,” the scarecrow grunted, “then they’re enemies, and you’ve finally outlived your usefulness,” he said. “I wonder what they’ll give us for you,” the man mused darkly, looking at Vorru with an expression of thinly veiled contempt. The expression was a lie; Vorru had enough experience with sadists to recognize murderous impulses disguised as contempt. If it were up to Skynxnex, Vorru would already be dead or dying in the most painful way Skynxnex could imagine, and for no reason other than witnessing that pain would mildly amuse him.

The lift came to a stop and the doors opened. Skynxnex gestured at the door with his blaster. “After you.” Reluctantly, Vorru led the way, feeling those barrels pointed at his back with every step. The corridors had been better maintained than those in the computer records facility he had inhabited these last months, but the days of regular maintenance were long gone. Far from housing a well-run Imperial administration, this corridor was still testament to the harsh fighting that had taken place when the inmates rose up. Scorch marks from stray blaster bolts pocked the walls. The offices on either side had been ransacked for anything of use before being therapeutically melted, likely the work of an E-web repeating blaster.

They passed a broad anteroom to what had been the Imperial prefect’s office. It faced huge windows displaying Kessel’s desolate flats and the atmosphere factories beyond, which pumped a barely-adequate supply of air into Kessel’s barely-adequate gravity. Above the air, Vorru should see the telltale shimmer of the planetary shields, which prevented the entire prison population from getting fried by the intense gamma radiation produced by the nearby Maw, a cosmically unique collection of dozens of black holes that made this region of space one of the most treacherous in the galaxy. Kessel was, in short, one of the least hospitable places in the entire galaxy for human and alien life. It certainly was no Coronet City, a sleek metropolis with verdant greenery around it. The fleeting thought which sent a pang of homesickness through Vorru. How long had it been since he’d last been on Corellia? Fifteen years? Twenty? However long it had been, it had been much too long.

But now he didn’t have time for Old Home Week at Coronet. He was on. The Imperial prefect’s desk had been originally sized for a human, but someone had shortened the legs—haphazardly, Vorru noted—to be sized for a much shorter, squatter creature. In this case, the venal and perpetually planning Moruth Doole.

Doole was a Rybet; bright green, with tan spots on his skull that seemed to glow in the dim light from the glowpanels and large windows behind him. His reptilian, naturally amphibious skin was disgustingly cracked, which probably explained his proximity to a ramshackle humidifier just behind his chair which hummed and crackled seemingly at random, coughing out a watery mist. Vorru could already feel the sharp creases of his prison uniform collapsing. 

Unlike Skynxnex, Doole wore nothing even remotely Imperial—not that there were any Imperial-style uniforms for Rybets anyway—instead donning a long, lizardskin waistcoat. It was an attempt to add a rakish appeal to his diminutive frame. The attempt was spoiled by his eyes, Vorru thought. They were overlarge with vertical slits and not the least bit intimidating; one was a milky, sightless white, while the other was enhanced by a mechanic’s loupe, forever hiding him from meeting the eyes of others. That was a real detriment for one who dreamed himself a leader.

But Vorru’s attention wasn’t on Doole for more than a moment. He knew the Rybet and dismissed him almost instantly. He was powerful only because despite his venality, he could manage the mines like no other, and even condescended to give the prisoners enough rations and equipment for a fighting chance in the mines. Really, a better alternative had not yet presented itself; the moment a more capable thinker, a more charismatic leader, came along Doole would be pushed aside or rendered an underling. While Doole fiddled with his mechanical eye to get a good look at Vorru, Vorru watched the room’s final occupant.

The man was tall, almost two meters in height, and loomed over even Skynxnex’s lanky frame. His height was augmented by the armored boots he wore; his entire armored form gleamed bronze as the sunlight from Doole’s massive windows cascaded over him, reflecting and giving him an almost otherworldly glow. His head was covered by a coiled helm, also bronze, and his face by a vivid white mask of some kind of alien bear. The visage was intricately and masterfully painted—or perhaps carved, it was hard to tell exactly how the effect was produced from a distance—to give it the impression of fur, dark eyes, and a snarl with just a hint of teeth around the mouth. The impression it left on the viewer was potent, to say the least; Skynxnex’s gaze hadn’t left the armored man since they had entered the office, his blaster pointing half in his direction.

“Fliry Vorru,” Doole said finally, hopping down off his chair and moving around the shortened desk in his direction.

Vorru ignored him; walked right past him, leaving the Rybet standing behind him in stunned disbelief. Doole’s head swiveled after him in an expression of growing rage, stammering, but he wasn’t important. Not if the armored man was what Vorru thought him to be, was what Tavira told him he was. And if he wasn’t, well, then Vorru was about to die anyway. He might as well do so with panache. 

“You are the Tevas-kaar,” he asked, stopping in front of the taller, armored man. Vorru, who was quite short, was forced to look up, and up some more to meet the man’s shadowed gaze. The eyes were dark and utterly unemotive, though whether that was because of their natural color or because of the effect of the mask he couldn’t tell.

“Yes,” the man replied, his voice resonantly rumbling from behind the mask, with no discernible accent. “You are Moff Fliry Vorru of Corellia?”

Vorru smiled. It had been a long time since someone had referred to him as such. It was a good omen that Tavira would be pliable, or at least polite if she had instructed the Tevas-kaar to greet him with his old title. “I am,” he agreed readily, letting his voice hover confidently in the air, still ignoring Doole’s now quite annoyed babble behind him. He _was_ Moff Fliry Vorru of Corellia, could feel the old prestige draped around his shoulders, could feel himself settling back into the fondly remembered routines of one of the most powerful men of the Empire. The former Moff offered the Tevas-kaar—and he really had to learn the man’s name, thinking of him by title would grow annoying and quickly—a thin smile. “You have your orders?” he asked the armored man.

The masked figure’s face was motionless, but Vorru saw the man’s large hands flex. “Yes.”

Vorru smiled thinly. “Then by all means,” he said, enjoying Doole’s perturbation and continuing to ignore it, “carry them out.”

This was the moment of truth, the moment where Vorru himself would discover if Tavira’s boasting had been genuine or overstated. His life hung in the balance of the next few moments—

The Tevas-kaar lifted his hand. Vorru heard Skynxnex gasp in surprise and anger, as his double-barreled blaster soared through the air over Vorru’s shoulder to land in the armored man’s hand. He pointed it at the ceiling and pulled the trigger. The two barrels fired as one, the twinned bolts fusing into a larger, overloaded blast that slammed into the ceiling, sending a shower of insulation down from above, dust intermingling with mist from Doole’s humidifier and the newly-introduced scent of ozone. The Tevas-kaar lowered the blaster and examined it with a faint distaste, then ejected the gas cartridge before tossing it aside.

Skynxnex recovered quickly. Doole’s enforcer hauled a shock stick from his belt and started to charge, but it availed him nothing. Before he took more than a step, he stumbled, both hands moving to hold his swanlike throat, gagging. The Texas-kaar's right hand pointed towards Skynxnex, forefinger and thumb curled into a steadily tightening circle. Skynxnex gurgled, clinging to his throat, his eyes bulging in disbelief as he tried to speak but was unable to. Vorru turned to look at Doole and his grey eyes were hard. “Kessel is _mine_ now, Doole,” Vorru’s voice was chipped flint, grating over the sound of Skynxnex’s gagging. “You may continue to manage it _if_ you cooperate. If you do not…” he pointed at Skynxnex, who fell to his knees, flailing.

Doole stared at Vorru, at the Tevas-kaar, and most of all at the gasping Skynxnex. “I… I understand,” he said, his expression horrified.

Vorru offered him a calm, victorious smile. “Release him,” he said, remembering how Grand Moff Tarkin had managed Vader. How often had he wished for a Vader of his own…?

Skynxnex suddenly took a gasping breath, falling forward onto his hands and knees, panting for breath, color returning to his face. Wisely, he didn’t look up.

“The _Invidious_ will remain here until my agents arrive to ensure that Kessel remains under my control,” Vorru continued conversationally, turning so that he stood in front of and beside the Tevas-kaar. “You’ve treated me with the dignity you could Doole. As such, do not think my generosity wanting. You will continue to sell spice, but only to smugglers of _my_ choosing. You will continue to receive a cut, but a reduced cut. You will continue to oversee prisoners, but you will release the prisoners I want released and hold the people I want held. Serve me well, and in time, you will be richly rewarded beyond any dream of avarice. But fail me, and your end will be slow and painful. Do we understand one another?”

The Rybet stared at him with terrified eyes, his gaze pulling towards the taller Tevas-kaar yet constantly drawn back to Vorru’s hard gaze.

“Don’t make me ask twice,” Vorru said, with a touch of impatience.

“I… yes. Of course,” Doole replied, bowing his head subserviently. Vorru had seen that expression on him before, years ago, when he’d been a petty administrator in the Spice Mines, before his very bloody coup. It was gratifying to see it once again, but Vorru would be sure not to forget what had come of the last man Doole had bowed to. The massive public executions of the Imperial guards and administrators who had once occupied these offices, everyone even suspected of being a trustie, were hard to forget.

(It had taken some quick talking to spare Vorru himself one of those executions, but being a personal enemy of the Emperor had been an effective defense.)

“Excellent,” Vorru replied with a smile that could almost be mistaken for friendly. “May our partnership be long and fruitful.”

The _Sentinel-_ class landing shuttle that carried Vorru and his escort hummed softly as it made its way towards the looming _Invidious_. Vorru leaned forward to peer upwards out the window at the Star Destroyer, wishing he was in the pilot’s seat but glad for the opportunity to view the big ship. He could see an EVA crew working on one of the starboard shield generators as the shuttle moved under the Star Destroyer and towards its huge docking bay. 

“Trouble with the starboard shields?” he asked the pilot quizzically. 

The pilot grunted softly as he moved the ship’s wings into landing position. “The generators have been fussy ever since we got into a scrape with some Diamala out near Sullust,” he replied absently. 

_Definitely not a regular Imperial pilot_ , Vorru thought, his lips shifting into a frown. _The regular navy would never talk so freely to newcomers, especially about sensitive information_. He nodded, watching as the pilot skillfully maneuvered the shuttle up into the docking bay. _Still,_ he mused to himself, _it’s not unexpected that_ Invidious _has maintenance issues. Star Destroyers were designed for them._

The shuttle settled between marked lines in _Invidious’_ docking bay, which was filled with other ships—squadrons of what seemed to be modified TIE designs with three triangular wings arranged symmetrically around their cockpits. The pilot in him—the one who had been grounded in Kessel for two years since Cracken had finished “debriefing” him and the Rogues had dropped him on that miserable rock—craved the opportunity to take one out for a spin and see what it could do, but the Moff knew that opportunity would not be soon in coming, if ever. 

He patted the pilot on the shoulder approvingly. “Smooth landing,” then turned on his heels and walked down the still-descending flight ramp. He had never met Leonia Tavira before now, but he recognized her instantly from the combination of her Moff’s uniform, her short stature, and her brilliant, piercing violet eyes. The flamboyant red bandanna was merely an accent. _Do not underestimate her just because of her youth,_ he reminded himself. _Or her beauty. This is a woman who at sixteen was taken against her will to be the concubine of a Moff, and by twenty_ she _was the Moff. If Dlarit taught you nothing, keep it professional. Always._

“Moff Vorru of Corellia,” the young woman greeted him cheerfully, her arms folded behind her back as she adopted a formal posture.

“Moff Tavira of Ado,” he replied with her own defunct Moff title, wishing that he’d had the opportunity to put on a Moff uniform before greeting her. His Kessel prison clothes felt decidedly inadequate for this meeting. “Thank you for the ride. And for the assistance securing the revenues of Kessel.” 

Her smile was positively predatory. “You’re most welcome. I have some of my assets arriving to garrison the world as we speak, so that it stays secured after we depart,” she replied, her tones airily dismissive, as if bringing a Star Destroyer to Kessel and providing a Force-adept bodyguard were the least of her concerns. The Force-adept bodyguard in question stepped down the shuttle’s ramp behind him and moved to stand near Tavira, taking a watchful pose just behind her and to her right, his bronze armor gleaming in the artificial light of the docking bay. “I have a room prepared for you, and a wardrobe,” Tavira said, her airy tone continuing to treat her courtesy as almost an afterthought. “Then perhaps you would consent to join me to discuss the next phase of your plan.” 

Vorru felt his lips move into a confident, almost cocky smile. Yes, he was older now. Yes, he was without almost all of the resources he had once had. Yes, the moment the New Republic discovered he had escaped Kessel they would no doubt come after him. And none of that mattered a whit. Tavira wasn’t the only one who had started with nothing, after all; he’d no more been born into Moffdom than she had. He’d done it before, he could do it again. “Yes of course,” he said, careful not to offer any intonation or words that suggested he accepted her as his superior. He’d made that mistake with Isard; not again. “I reached out to you considering your discerning eye and keen tactical mind. Rest assured both traits will see use before the week is out.”

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Elements of Kevin J. Anderson's "Jedi Search" and Michael Stackpole's "I, Jedi," including descriptions and dialogue, were repurposed to varying degrees in this chapter.


	3. Chapter Two

Painted proudly in New Republic colors, with its now-legitimized Starbird Seal gleaming red on her hull, _Ession Strike_ snapped into realspace in the Hishyim system. The swirling lights visible through the ship’s handful of exterior viewports ceased with unusual abruptness. Captain Atril Tabanne leaned slightly forward in her chair at the center of the modified Corellian corvette’s small bridge, adjusting to the sudden change in motion with the hard-won reflexes of the Caridan Academy-trained TIE pilot she had once been. A willowy brunette with hair cut just short enough to fit into a pilot’s helmet, Atril now wore her New Republic Fleet uniform with pride and slept better most nights. 

The ship’s hull seams popped and flexed with protest at the abrupt deceleration. Alarms surged through the bridge, and her small, tight-knit crew responded with the same taut urgency she’d spent months instilling. 

“[Unmapped gravity well forced an early reversion!]” hissed the Togorian officer manning the sensors station. “[We’ve hit an Interdictor Cruiser!]” Outside, flashes of green turbolaser fire spit towards _Ession Strike_ from the assembled ambush.

Atril leaned back slightly in her seat, took a moment to consider the tactical plot, and rapped out a series of orders in a clear, clipped soprano. “Helm, engines to maximum. Alter course thirty-five degrees to starboard and pitch us down away from the Interdictor. Guns, give me ranging fire on the Cruiser. Keep an eye out for enemy fighters and target them as soon as they get within range.”

“[Enemy strength confirmed! Logging two _Imperial-II_ class Star Destroyers and one Katana Dreadnought in company with the Interdictor!]” The feline voice was alert, but there was no panic in it yet. 

Atril watched the starfield shift as the corvette maneuvered. On her combat display the Interdictor now tagged as _Stellar Web_ began to draw back, dropping behind the protection of the two rapidly-closing Star Destroyers with its dreadnought escort tucked in close. Meanwhile, the first TIE fighters closed in on _Ession Strike_ and came under laser fire. She watched with satisfaction as one of the TIEs caught a laser blast and vanished from the display.

The Star Destroyers closed, sliding in front of the Interdictor. _Ession Strike_ cut over hard, using the bulk of the starboard destroyer to obscure the sensors and guns of the portside one, but leaving the _Strike_ vulnerable to its partner. As the turbolaser fire intensified and splashed off _Strike’s_ shields, Atril spoke again. “More power to the engines. We need as much speed as you can give me” she demanded. “Guns, maintain focus on the fighters and keep them off us. Reinforce port and ventral shields; take power from starboard and forward shields if you have to.” If she could just get past the Destroyers in one piece, she could angle on the planet and force them to turn to chase her…

“[Multiple tractor beams attempting a lock],” the Togorian announced nervously in his hissing, feline accent as _Strike’s_ lasers splashed a second TIE. The others were warier now. Excellent. 

“I have a message from the lead Star Destroyer,” her communications officer, a Bothan, announced. “It’s from Admiral Rogriss. He’s requesting we surrender at once and promises fair treatment as prisoners of war.” His fur rippled dismissively. “I say we fight.”

Atril smiled thinly, watching her plot. _Ession Strike’s_ speed was increasing steadily and so far the corvette’s shields were holding off the distant incoming turbolaser fire, but that would change as soon as one of the tractors got a solid grip, which was only a matter of time. Clearly, Rogriss wanted her intact. The two destroyers were starting to separate now, altering to shift from a horizontal line into a vertical one which would allow the second Star Destroyer’s turbolasers to shoot at Ession Strike without hitting her partner first.

_Come on. Turn. Turn towards me. You’re going to have to if you want to catch me, so turn!_

Her fist knocked on the arm of her captain’s chair, silently urging Rogriss to do as she willed. As she watched, the plot updated again, giving the two Destroyers names for the first time: _Chimaera_ and _Agonizer_.

She refused to react as her guts turned to ice, careful to give no indications of her sudden concern to her crew. _Chimaera?_

The two Star Destroyers altered their headings, shifting to turn to pursue her and she half stood in her chair, all other thoughts banished. “Helm, shift us fifteen degrees to starboard! Keep us parallel to those Destroyers. All shields aft and port! Guns, keep suppression fire on the fighters.” She grinned, her heart pounding in her chest. “Execute!”

* * *

“Finalize tractor locks on the corvette,” barked Captain Gilad Pellaeon of the _Chimaera_. The corvette’s crew was good, he thought sourly. The Rebels had responded instantly to the ambush—faster than he would have been able to, in their place—and had used their maneuverability advantage to sideline half his firepower. He would be sure to convey his respects to their captain, once _Chimaera_ had him safely captured.

“Look at this, Captain,” Admiral Teren Rogriss’ voice came from beside him. Unlike Grand Admiral Thrawn, Rogriss was a more traditional Imperial officer who eschewed the command chair that Thrawn had favored for a roving watch on the bridge, using a datapad linked to the ship’s main computer as his primary command interface. Like Pellaeon himself, the grey-haired Rogriss had a service record that stretched back to the earliest days of Palpatine’s New Order. Between the two of them they probably had as many years of experience as the rest of _Chimaera’s_ bridge crew combined.

“Look at what, Admiral?” Pellaeon asked as _Chimaera’s_ tractors finally caught the corvette. The much smaller ship was now steadily being dragged towards them. He frowned at that. The ship was still presenting its port side to _Chimaera_ and _Agonizer_ , which was odd. Had he been in command of the corvette, he would have gone perpendicular to make best use of the corvette’s massive engines and minimize his target profile.

Rogriss handed him the datapad. “Intelligence just sent the first good report on our prey,” the Admiral said. “It’s not a typical CR90. They’re still sorting it out, but Lieutenant Dreyf thinks it used to be one of Zsinj’s pocket carriers. Corvettes built to hold a squadron or so of TIE fighters.”

“Status change!”

Pellaeon and Rogriss both turned towards the shocked sound just in time for the first proton torpedoes to slam into _Chimaera’s_ tractor beam emitters.

* * *

Wedge Antilles didn’t wait for a target lock as his X-wing led the charge from _Ession Strike’s_ hangar bays. He and Tycho had been the first two pilots out of the modified CR90’s starboard hangar, their launch carefully shielded from _Chimaera’s_ view. He dipped his fighter’s nose slightly and triggered two proton torpedoes, letting both lance blindly into the void between the corvette and _Chimaera_. Both torpedoes were caught by the tractors lashing the smaller ship and pulled instantly towards the Destroyer.

“Rogues, hit _Chimaera_ with a torpedo volley, then break by pairs and take the TIEs,” he commanded, hearing the order acknowledged. “Rogue Two on me, let’s scatter these eyeballs.” He and Tycho were momentarily alone as the remainder of the understrength squadron finished its rapid launch procedure. Red laser fire continued to lance from _Ession Strike_ towards the TIEs, which were just now turning towards the new, unexpected fighter threat when he and Tycho hit them.

Wedge’s HUD flickered green as he tracked one of the TIEs caught transfixed between the corvette’s main battery and the X-wings and fired, punching a quad-burst of laser fire through TIE’s starboard wing and ball cockpit. A small part of Wedge felt a pang of guilt as the fighter exploded, but that didn’t prevent him from seeking out another target from those remaining. A quick warning warble from Gate led him to glance at his HUD and juke his X-wing. Incoming green laser fire went wide.

“Lead, roll port on my mark,” Tycho’s calm voice said in his ear. “Mark.”

Wedge chopped his throttle and spun his fighter, green blasts flashing through where he’d been rather than where he was. They stopped suddenly as Tycho stitched the two TIEs tracking Wedge with precise, twin-linked laser fire. The two X-wings re-oriented themselves and Wedge took a slight lead while checking his squadron’s status. Looking ‘up’ through his X-wing’s canopy he saw _Ession Strike_ and Hobbie’s X-wing dancing with a trio of TIE fighters. Wedge kicked his fighter’s engines to full, roaring towards the fight with Tycho following faithfully.

“Two Flight, torps away!” Wes Janson’s voice came over the squadron channel, and eight proton torpedoes streaked towards _Chimaera_.

“Three Flight, torpedoes away,” Corran Horn’s voice echoed, though Wedge’s fellow Corellian led an understrength flight that produced only six torpedoes. The fourteen missiles were far from enough to kill an Impstar Deuce, but if they hit in a single timed arrival even a Star Destroyer would feel the sting. Janson’s torpedoes hit first, and _Chimaera’s_ port shields flickered under the sudden energy infusion. Corran’s torpedoes hit next; four were stopped by the flickering shields but the final two snuck through, digging deep into _Chimaera’s_ hull armor and converting their explosive mass to pure energy and splintered debris.

It was a start, Wedge thought as _Chimaera’s_ tractor beams died. _Ession Strike’s_ now unhindered engines flared brighter and the corvette put on more speed, causing the Star Destroyers’ turbolasers to splash impotently against its shields as the distance increased. The TIEs harassing the corvette weren’t doing any better: Hobbie’s aggressive maneuvering and fire had already accounted for two of them and _Ession Strike_ finished off the final TIE with a quick burst of laser fire before he and Tycho could reach it.

He could imagine Atril’s smug expression and allowed himself a grin.

“Rogues, this is _Strike_. _Chimaera_ and _Agonizer_ are launching their remaining TIE squadrons. Reading two squadrons of interceptors and another squadron of fighters,” said _Ession Strike’s_ Bothan communication officer into his ear. “All of them are vectoring in on our position.”

Wedge examined his HUD. The leading TIE squadrons were slowing their approach, and Wedge ran the intercept and numbers in his head.

 _They don’t want to come in piecemeal. Ten of us versus twelve of them three times is easy. Ten of us versus thirty-six of them all at once is much harder. Apparently they know that as well as we do._ He thumbed his comm. “Rogues, they’re trying to swarm us. Stay with your wingmates, stand off on CAP for the _Strike_. Let them approach and let _Strike_ give you cover while we get as many as we can with torps; don’t worry about saving any for the Star Destroyers.” His orders given, Wedge watched as _Chimaera_ and _Agonizer_ began to surge after _Ession Strike_ and his pilots.

* * *

Pellaeon grunted angrily as the X-wings scored hits on his ship. “Damage report,” he demanded.

“We’ve lost both starboard tractor beam emitters, Captain,” said a nervous voice from the starboard crew pit. “And one of our turbolaser batteries is non-responsive. Shields are fully restored.”

 _Saving the good news for last,_ Pellaeon thought as he grunted his acknowledgement. The loss of both starboard tractor beam emitters—both!—was serious. _Agonizer_ wasn’t in range to use theirs and _Ession Strike_ was now gaining distance on them, heading deeper into the planet’s gravity well. That meant the corvette could—in theory—gravity boost around the planet and head out the other side at a random vector and skip into hyperspace before they could stop her.

Even if he rolled _Chimaera,_ he was almost out of range to use his portside tractor beam emitters, and the corvette’s captain was successfully keeping his ship out of _Chimaera’s_ forward firing arc.

A year ago, Thrawn would tell him to use a Marg Sabl maneuver, or a Sus’Qena Diversion, and the battle would be over with minimal losses. Or he’d coax C’baoth into using his Jedi tricks to enhance the coordination and concentration of his fighter pilots, making novice pilots fly like veterans. But Thrawn was dead and there were no more easy battles.

As he watched the ten X-wings—now positively ID'd as Rogue Squadron, and wasn’t that just a fresh kick in the teeth—were racing back towards the corvette where they could fight in the protective shadow of its lasers. Pellaeon gritted his teeth. _Chimaera_ could carry six squadrons of TIE fighters, but TIEs were not easy to come by these days ( _especially not after the loss of the Bilbringi shipyards_ , and the thought was a knife to his heart), nor were pilots ( _not after the loss of the cloning facility on Wayland,_ his restless mind added insufferably), and there weren’t likely to be any replacements for either any time soon. And _Chimaera_ and _Agonizer_ had started the battle with only two squadrons each. 

Rogriss apparently was thinking much the same. “The Republic sent their best. This is going to be a bitter victory,” he murmured, his eyes on the larger combat plot. “If we hold the TIEs back and send _Stellar Web_ forward at full burn, we might be able to hold the corvette here long enough for _Chimaera_ and _Agonizer_ to get the ship back under tractor,” he proposed.

“Maybe,” Pellaeon said. “But that will also let the X-wings have a good shot at her, and we can afford to lose TIEs more than we can an Interdictor.” He shook his head. “You have to credit the Rebels,” he said grudgingly. “They couldn’t have fought this any better than they—”

“Status change!”

The two men turned, first towards each other, then towards the combat plot, and paled.

* * *

General Garm Bel Iblis smoothed his graying mustache and allowed himself the small, vulpine grin of a hunter as the Interdictor’s gravity well yanked the Mon Calamari Star Cruiser _Orthavan_ and her three near-identical sisters out of hyperspace directly on top of the _Stellar Web._ Experienced and hungry, the crews of the four _Liberty-_ class Star Cruisers, each the size of Ackbar’s _Home One_ , positioned their ships into a traditional box formation. Moments later his five Katana dreadnoughts dropped in and moved into escort formation.

He had the Imperials outgunned almost three-to-one.

At the battle of Qat Chrystac Thrawn had beaten him, Bel Iblis reflected, with this very maneuver. Using an Interdictor cruiser to pull two _Victory-_ class Star Destroyers out of hyperspace at exactly the right spot at exactly the right time. _Orthavan_ had barely escaped that ambush in one piece. They even had a name for it in the fleet: the Thrawn Pincer. 

Now it was Bel Iblis’ turn to be the one with the claws. Captain Tabanne had played her part to perfection – _Ession Strike_ had gotten Rogriss’ attention and now the Destroyers were turned away from his entry vector. There was no more vulnerable position for a Star Destroyer to be in than faced directly away from an onrushing enemy, and he had _two_ of them doing exactly that.

“All ships concentrate fire on _Agonizer_ ,” Bel Iblis ordered. “Let’s see how they’re going to try to get out of this.”

* * *

“Five Dreadnoughts and four _Liberty_ -class cruisers,” Pellaeon remarked more calmly than he felt. “That must be Bel Iblis.” They were in deep trouble, Pellaeon knew; now it wasn’t a rush to secure a victory, but an undignified scramble to save his ship and their task force.

Rogriss might not be Thrawn, but the man had command presence to spare and gave no outward sign of surprise or panic as he responded to the ambush. “Order _Stellar Web_ to power down her gravity wells and head for hyperspace. _Agonizer_ to make ninety-degree starboard turn and pitch upwards; roll to maintain maximum possible field of fire. _Chimaera_ to maintain formation with _Agonizer_. Both ships scatter fire between the Rebel cruisers. Execute.” There was no sign of the strain he had to be feeling in his voice, but his expression flickered and his hand gave a slight tremor, betraying his concern as his orders were relayed to their other ships. “He mousetrapped us with our own Interdictor,” he murmured to Pellaeon.

“Yes, he did,” Pellaeon agreed, feeling himself the same grudging admiration that he heard in Rogriss’ voice. “Helm, match _Agonizer’s_ turn and roll and keep us at parade formation distance. Maximum power to ion cannons and shields. Prepare to roll if we lose starboard shields.”

“Admiral, _Agonizer_ reports three separate tractor beam locks,” the Communications officer’s voice was strained and nervous, but Lieutenant Tschel wasn’t quite as young as he'd been before Thrawn had polished his rough edges.

“ _Agonizer_ is losing velocity, Admiral,” said Pellaeon. “Should we stay in formation?”

“Bel Iblis is giving us a choice,” Rogriss murmured thoughtfully. “Stay and protect _Agonizer_ and potentially lose both ships, or abandon her to save _Chimaera_.” Neither man mentioned their TIE fighters, which were currently embroiled in a losing melee with _Ession Strike_ and Rogue Squadron. The Rogues had savaged the leading TIE squadrons with proton torpedo strikes at range and were currently confirming their reputation as the New Republic’s best while the corvette's apparently crack gunnery crews were scything even more TIEs out of space. Given the distances there was no way to screen or retrieve their remaining TIEs, not if they wanted to escape with _Agonizer_. They both knew it.

Rogriss paused a moment to consider, then gave his orders. “Cut velocity and maintain formation with _Agonizer_. Maximum ion bombardment; I want to scramble those tractor systems long enough to get both ships out of here.”

Pellaeon nodded. “Yes, Admiral.” The Empire couldn’t afford to lose any ships right now, but they especially could not afford to lose Star Destroyers. They would save _Agonizer_. They had to. But it would not be easy: even as the ship tried to turn, the four Mon Calamari Star Cruisers poured red turbolaser fire into _Agonizer’s_ engines and its aft shields glowed under the bombardment. One of _Agonizer_ ’s three massive engines took a series of direct hits and flickered ominously, further cutting the ship’s speed.

On the combat display _Stellar Web_ vanished into hyperspace and its escort, the Katana dreadnought _Guisarme_ , turned back to aid the remaining Imperial ships.

Pellaeon watched the plot, his brow furrowing as he watched the combat unfold. Bel Iblis was still trying to knock out _Agonizer’s_ engines and he might well succeed if he kept at it. _Guisarme_ was moving to intervene—although Pellaeon wasn’t quite sure what a single dreadnought would do against Bel Iblis’ formation. “Admiral,” his voice was quietly focused as he watched the dreadnought maneuver. “Look at _Guisarme_.”

The two men clustered together as they examined the dreadnought’s status on the battle display. _Guisarme_ ’s clone crew was pushing the old ship’s engines well past their redlines, and with a sudden rush Pellaeon realized what the ship’s crew was trying to do. They knew as well as he did that the Empire couldn’t afford to lose a Star Destroyer… 

He couldn’t wait for Rogriss to figure it out. Taking a moment to judge _Guisarme’s_ trajectory— “Redirect all fire against _Innasval_ ,” he commanded. “Order _Agonizer_ to do the same.”

Rogriss looked at him with surprise, then echoed the order without hesitation. “Do it!”

The two Star Destroyers poured fire into the closest of the four Mon Calamari Star Cruisers, the one with the best tractor lock on _Agonizer_. _Innasval’s_ tractor beams lost their lock under the heavy ion bombardment and _Agonizer’s_ remaining engines surged to life, as every member of the ship’s crew silently willed their vessel to accelerate.

Then _Guisarme_ cut between the formations, its crew interposing the Dreadnought between _Agonizer_ and _Orthavan_. The Mon Calamari cruiser’s tractor beam—and turbolaser fire—caught _Guisarme_ amidships _,_ but the _Dreadnought_ -class heavy cruisers had been built from the keel up to take punishment. Even as _Guisarme’s_ hull shed bits of overheated armor and gouts of atmosphere, the ship’s engines and momentum carried it forward in a long arc as if lassoed to _Orthavan_. _Guisarme_ continued its arc in front of the Rebel formation and for the briefest of moments swung between _Agonizer_ and _Ivardal_ and in that instant _Agonizer_ was free. _Orthavan_ and _Ivardal’s_ tractor beams were all latched securely on _Guisarme,_ and _Agonizer_ was free.

Rogriss’ voice was triumphant. “ _Agonizer,_ go!” Before the order was even finished, the Star Destroyer flickered with pseudomotion and vanished. Rogriss’ voice was thick with relief. “Get us out of here, Captain.”

Pellaeon gave the order and _Chimaera_ leapt to hyperspace, leaving their squadrons of TIEs and _Guisarme_ behind them as the fee for their freedom.

* * *

“Damn,” Wedge said mildly. He flicked his communications to full-spectrum. “This is General Wedge Antilles to Imperial pilots. Your motherships have abandoned you to save themselves. You’re stranded and in moments you’ll be outnumbered.” Even as he said the words, he saw A-wing and X-wing squadrons from the rest of the fleet moving to support the Rogues. “If you stand down we’ll treat you honorably as prisoners of war.”

“Think they’ll go for it, Lead?” Rogue Six asked over the squadron-only frequency, Gavin’s voice no longer quite so young as it had been when the then-sixteen year old first signed up with the Rogues.

Wedge didn’t say anything, waiting to find out himself. He didn’t have to wait long to get an answer. “This is Colonel Goda. All TIE pilots, stand down your weapons and engines. This battle is over.”

The TIEs stopped maneuvering, killed their forward momentum, and the lights around their cannons went dark just as the damaged Imperial Dreadnought did the same. The arriving New Republic snubfighters gave them a wide berth, sweeping around outside of their weapons range and encircling them.

Wedge allowed himself a smile as he checked his HUD, toggling through all the members of his squadron. Another victory without losing any of his pilots, and there was nothing better than _that_.

* * *

General Bel Iblis was not as happy, his clenched fist resting angrily on the arm of his command chair. “We had them, we had them and they got away.”

 _Orthavan’s_ Mon Calamari commanding officer, Captain Irraerl, looked at him with one of her large eyes. “We took the system,” she pointed out, her voice gravelly in the comparatively dry air of the ship’s bridge. “We can now effectively blockade Ukio and force its surrender.”

“Yes,” Bel Iblis agreed. “Eventually. But as long as Rogriss and Pellaeon are free with their Star Destroyers they’re a threat that can’t be underestimated. And it will take months, perhaps even years, to force the Imperial garrison on Ukio to surrender through a blockade.” He scowled. “And we _had_ them. We had nearly a third of their Star Destroyer strength in the most tactically disadvantageous position possible.” His eyes settled on the _Guisarme._ The dreadnought had managed to thoroughly wreck his plans with some gutsy flying and willing self-sacrifice. _They would have made good Rebels._ “Has _Guisarme_ surrendered?”

Irraerl nodded her large head, a gesture which always made a Mon Calamari look like they were bobbing in water. “As soon as _Chimaera_ entered hyperspace.”

“Good,” Bel Iblis growled. This should have been a decisive victory, but _Guisarme’s_ quick action had foiled it. He took a deep breath and put the failure behind him. One battle at a time, that was the mantra. A setback was not a defeat. A year ago, with Thrawn commanding the Imperial Starfleet, it had been Bel Iblis settling for successful withdrawal after successful withdrawal. Now fortunes were reversed, and he suspected that Thrawn had been just as frustrated at this kind of setback then as he was now. The thought gave him some recompense. Some. “Bring us into orbit of Hishyim and contact the Imperial planetary garrison,” he ordered. “Tell them we demand their immediate surrender. And tell Major Page to prepare his ground forces for an assault in case they decide to fight.”

* * *

Thrawn’s personal chambers had been sealed since the Grand Admiral’s death; entering them now made Pellaeon feel like he was entering a mausoleum. Inside he saw that the lights were still kept dim, the way Thrawn had preferred, while carefully engineered microbrights cast gentle pools of light on the holographic (and handful of non-holographic) sculptures and paintings that were spread evenly through the space, illuminating them without causing wear or damage.

He recognized many of the pieces. Thrawn had retained this arrangement while he planned his campaigns against the Rebellion. Admiral Ackbar’s own sculptures appeared in the double display ring on the right; with Senator Bel Iblis’ paintings and sculptures flanking them on the left. Whenever Thrawn had sought insight into the minds of his most dangerous adversaries, he would contemplate these pieces for hours on end, seeking even the smallest hints into the psychology of the men (or aliens) who had produced or chosen them. 

Thrawn had always _found_ those insights, too.

Pellaeon wondered if things would have ended differently if Thrawn had placed any Noghri art in here. Assuming the beasts made art. He rather doubted it.

He found Teren Rogriss staring at one of the paintings on the left. Framed with a dull unobtrusive bronze, the painting was of a lone man on a hill. The figure was painted in a ghostly white, with a flowing robe that made him appear almost ethereal, fabric whipping in the imagined breeze. The ground under his feet was rocky and troublesome and the man appeared pained by the experience of his hike. It was the sky behind the man that was the painting’s most defining feature: dark and starry, but as if behind a haze of dim fog that gave the image a dreamlike quality.

As Pellaeon stepped to stand next to Rogriss, he re-assessed his original judgment of the painting. No, the most defining feature wasn’t the sky, but the man’s eyes. His gaze was on the ground before him, focused and weary—the eyes of a man on a long journey that had no sure end.

“It’s called ‘Peregrine’,” Rogriss said, and there was pain in his voice. “Bel Iblis named his flagship after it.”

Pellaeon and Rogriss studied the painting a bit longer.

“I don’t see anything here that would help me outthink Garm Bel Iblis,” Rogriss said finally.

“Nor do I,” Pellaeon agreed heavily.

The two men stood in silence both staring at the painting. Pellaeon swallowed hard as he realized that Rogriss understood just as well as he did just what the Empire—what the _galaxy_ —had lost with Thrawn’s death.

They had been beaten today, and beaten badly. Somehow Bel Iblis had learned of their intended trap and stooped on the ambushers. Pellaeon and Rogriss would have to spend days scouring their fleet for intelligence leaks, but Pellaeon was not optimistic one would be found. The disastrous defeat had cost them minor damage to _Chimaera_ and _Agonizer_ , the four squadrons of TIEs that were all _Stellar Web, Chimaera,_ and _Agonizer_ had possessed, and the dreadnought _Guisarme_ with its irreplaceable clone crew. Under Thrawn, such a day would have the feeling of a momentary setback. Today, they were lucky it had not been worse.

Falling back, yet again. Since Pellaeon had been forced to retreat from Bilbringi, sacrificing the vital shipyards to save his fleet, the Imperial Starfleet had won no major victories. The sectors and systems Thrawn had taken from the New Republic were being retaken one by one. The Council of Moffs had been restored to effective power, and its infighting and corruption was splintering the fragile coalition of Imperial warlords that Thrawn had forged and held together by his own will.

It was all coming apart, Pellaeon thought, his gut turning as hollow as it had after Endor. _The center cannot hold_. _Not without an anchor. Not without a symbol of the Empire. Not without faith in our leadership._

Rogriss sighed and shook his head. “I wasn’t good enough today,” he said, to himself more than to Pellaeon. Before Endor, admitting such weakness to a subordinate would’ve been tantamount to career suicide, likely followed followed by actual suicide. It might still be if Pellaeon were interested in taking advantage, but Pellaeon was not interested in those games, and Rogriss did not fear them.

“No, sir,” Pellaeon agreed softly. 

“You were faster than I was every time,” Rogriss continued. “You knew something was wrong the moment the corvette reacted so quickly to our ambush. You realized that we needed to use ion cannons and not turbolasers after Bel Iblis’ cruisers came in out of hyperspace. And you recognized _Guisarme’s_ intent quickly enough for us to do our part to save _Agonizer_.”

True enough. It was hardly the first time Pellaeon had thought his commanding officers less capable than himself. But he’d never said as much to their faces, or at all. “Yes, sir.”

“We both rose within the Imperial Starfleet,” Rogriss mused. “Infinite resources, relatively weak foes. Promotion determined less by battlefield performance and more by boardroom performance.” He glanced over at Pellaeon. “You lacked the detached, bureaucratic killer instinct needed for that, so your career stalled.”

Pellaeon took a deep breath, the words bringing with them an old sting. “Yes, sir,” he admitted.

“But you are good at other things. Very good.” Rogriss nodded at the artwork. “You are an exceptional combat commander. You recognize threats and react to them quickly, without hesitation. Your men follow you because they trust that you’ll fight with them to the very end. That’s why Thrawn picked you, I think. And it’s why I’m lucky to have you as my flag captain.” 

Rogriss paused for a moment while Pellaeon stayed at attention. 

“And, it’s why I need you to do the things I can’t do,” Rogriss continued, his voice oddly soft. “Don’t let me make any more mistakes, Gilad.”

Pellaeon felt his back straighten. There were many kinds of leaders. Thrawn had been the best of all: a brilliant tactician whose ego and ambition did not get in the way of his duty. Pellaeon would regret what his loss would do to the Empire. He would mourn the death of a man who had not been his friend, exactly, but who _had_ shown friendship in every way that mattered to an old man who had given his life to the Starfleet.

But Thrawn was dead, and he wasn’t coming back. In his absence, Pellaeon could do worse than to follow an honorable man who recognized his own limitations and sought help to address them. He and the Empire could do _far_ worse. “Yes, sir.”


	4. Chapter Three

Talon Karrde crossed his legs casually, watching his crew work as the _Wild Karrde_ poked her way into Coruscanti orbit. The last few months had been productive ones—supremely productive—and he and his crew had much to be proud of. 

The Smuggler’s Alliance, a ragtag organization born out of necessity after the Fringe was thrown into conflict with Grand Admiral Thrawn, was holding together better than people had expected. 

_It’s certainly holding together better than Mara_ _expected, but she’s always such a pessimist,_ he thought as he glanced over at his second-in-command. 

Mara was turned away from him, seated at the co-pilot’s station and focused on her console; her red-gold hair had grown out some on their trip through the Rim and was drawn into a functional ponytail. Karrde watched her check their route in for the third time, and one of his eyebrows lifted slightly. While Mara was always precise, with a tendency to double-check, for her to make _triply-_ sure was out of character.

He permitted himself a small smile.

He had solved a large piece of the puzzle of Mara Jade—or, she had solved it for him. After their adventure on Wayland she had told him of her past; rather more than she had told even Skywalker, he suspected. She had been the Emperor’s Hand, and while her missions had been subtler than that of the Emperor’s other tools, there were plenty of Imperials who would remember her, as Thrawn had. She had listed off no less than a half-dozen current Imperial Admirals, Governors, Moffs, and Generals who would remember at least her face; men who had at one point or another had occasion to run across the Emperor’s Hand in her official capacity and likely believed her dead.

But knowing of her past, and now knowing why she had so hated Luke Skywalker, he found the larger mystery of Mara Jade far from solved. She had instead taken on new facets. Skeptical of the New Republic and everything it stood for; she had still accepted a job working for it. She also carried a lightsaber with confidence and practiced diligently with the weapon in the _Wild Karrde’s_ empty cargo bays, but she had been subtle in her public demonstrations of her growing Force abilities (or, perhaps, her increasingly _restored_ abilities).

She had hated Luke Skywalker. Despised him with the same ferocity that she attacked all of her tasks with. Now…

Karrde watched her posture tighten slightly more. He probably wouldn’t have noticed—it was undetectable to any but the most experienced eye—but he had plenty of experience reading body language. It was a necessary skill in his line of work.

She checked the ship’s course for a _fourth_ time.

He’d watched Luke and Mara interact aboard _Chimaera_ , which had been the first time he’d ever seen them collaborate. Even at the time he had known better than to tell her just how well they worked as a team. She had still wanted to kill him then, though some of the fire of her hatred had been extinguished. Then he’d seen Luke after the Katana battle, and watched the Jedi’s singleminded determination to rescue her and his obvious relief at her survival. He remembered Luke’s promise—on his honor as a Jedi, not as an agent of the New Republic—that Mara would receive the best medical care the New Republic had to offer. He remembered the proven sincerity of that promise.

He’d seen them stand as equals against Luke’s own twisted clone and Joruus C’baoth on Wayland.

Most of all, Karrde had seen them together on his ship after the battle on Wayland. Luke, sitting beside her unconscious form, falling asleep in his chair before she woke. Mara’s realization of his presence and surprise at his company; her waking him with an uncharacteristically gentle touch. Skywalker said something that had prompted Mara to roll her eyes at him, but then she had smiled. Not a polite smile, or a threatening smile (those Karrde had seen on Mara’s face many times before Wayland) but something heartfelt, a smile that made her entire expression soften. It had been, Karrde thought, the first time he’d ever seen Mara really smile.

Karrde wasn't Force-sensitive himself (how useful _that_ would have been), but he could see in the way Mara carried herself since then that something had been lifted from her. A weight she’d carried since long before they’d met was gone. Tension lines in her face had eased, making it easy to believe that she was still in her twenties and not the decade older he had first assumed. Surely, no one as young as she was would possess such cool competence. Not any more than they would carry around the weight of the universe, as Mara had so often seemed to. 

But now Mara was tense again, tenser than she’d been since Skywalker had first come on board the _Wild Karrde_ ; since she’d pulled the Jedi’s dead X-wing out of interstellar space. Karrde doubted very much she was nervous about meeting with Councilor Organa Solo about the Smuggler’s Alliance. He’d seen her stare down men twice her size and chide experienced smugglers with language so pointed it would skin the paint off of bulkheads. She could handle the liaison job that he and Leia had pressed her into; she could be the bridge between the New Republic and the Fringe that would enrich them both. That certainly wasn’t what had her back up.

She checked the ship’s course for a _fifth_ time.

Karrde hid a smile. He wouldn’t pry. He would, however, get the _Wild Karrde_ on the ground before Mara destroyed some of his sensor equipment. He turned towards the comm station. “Dankin, do we have a landing window yet?”

“Platinum Clearance, Capt’. We’re up next,” the Berchestian’s familiar drawl came back. His face was turned away from Karrde as he fiddled with his station, emphasizing the lines of alien characters he had tattooed all over his reddish, bald head. “We’ve got an assigned landing berth now too. Imperial Palace, the same one we put down at the last time we were here.”

“Higher profile than I would like, but convenient,” Karrde conceded. “All right. Faughn, bring us in as soon as Coruscant traffic control gives us our entry vector. Nice and smooth, we don’t want to make any bad impressions.”

“Hah,” Faughn scoffed from the helm console, up front next to Mara. With Aves off commanding the _Last Resort_ , Gillespee’s former lieutenant had accepted Karrde’s offer of employment. Gillespee had been good-natured about it, but had informed Karrde that this was yet another favor that was owed to him. “I’ve been able to land bulk freighters since I was a teenager,” Faughn’s voice was stiff and unamused. “Or have you forgotten my resume?”

“You never gave me a proper resume,” Karrde replied smoothly. “As I recall it, our entire interview was a dinner conversation. I asked if you were interested in Aves’ old post on our bridge, Gillespee cursed me for stealing his people, and you asked if you could start right away.”

“Never gave me a proper resume,” Faughn mimicked, adding a lilt to his stentorian inflection, her attention still on her board. “I didn’t need to give you a resume. Knowing you, you probably already knew my work history going all the way back to when Gillespee first had me piloting shuttles. At _thirteen._ ”

“Now that you mention it, I think Gillespee gave me a holo.”

Faughn glared at him over her shoulder.

Chin laughed. “I’d love to see that, Capt’,” the older man said with clear amusement. “I bet the crew would really get a kick—”

His words cut out as Faughn cranked the _Wild Karrde’s_ throttle, sudden inertia driving them all back into their acceleration couches—all except Mara. She just sat there, annoyingly composed, though it did get her to glance up from her panel.

Over the ship’s comlink with Coruscant traffic control came an unfamiliar voice. “Uh, _Wild Karrde_ , your entry vector is now open. Councilor Organa Solo is waiting for you at the assigned hangar.” There was a pause. “Is everything all right up there? We just noticed a—”

Karrde waved his hand at Dankin. “Everything is fine, Coruscant Control,” he replied, his voice firm as he tried very, very hard to keep his amusement out of it. “I suppose you could say my new pilot is breaking in my crew. We’ll be on the ground in moments.” He arched an eyebrow at Faughn. “Now don’t make a liar of me, Faughn,” he warned her good-naturedly.

“Moments it is,” his helmswoman replied with a confident grin and the _Wild Karrde_ flew towards the palace in a controlled (if somewhat hasty and no doubt concern-inducing for the poor people manning Coruscant Control) descent. Not that he was ever concerned with Faughn at the helm, she was as by-the-book as any smuggler he’d ever known, with a general aversion to unnecessary risks. She was, in short, the perfect smuggler for the new _semi_ -respectable Smuggler’s Alliance.

She was also new to the _Wild Karrde_ and to his organization, which meant she needed a chance to strut her stuff for the old hands. Faughn wasn’t usually a pilot; Gillespee had groomed her to be a communications and electronics specialist, which was exactly what Karrde had lost when he’d given Aves his own command. But every smuggler needed a reputation for being a good pilot, because no smuggler really respected one of their number who couldn’t fly. That was why Faughn and not Mara was at the helm today. And because he might be losing Mara one day, and sooner than he’d like to. 

The ship finished its swoop towards the landing pad, then held steady on repulsors meters above the ground before deploying its landing gear and settling smoothly between the marked lines. Karrde smiled. “Well done, Faughn,” he said, more for the crew’s benefit than for hers. He stood and straightened his outfit. “Come on, Mara, let’s go meet the Councilor. The rest of you, finish your assigned duties and then take twenty-four hours liberty. Normal rules apply.” He lifted a finger warningly at Dankin. “Comms stay _on_.” There was a rustle of laughter as his crew needled Dankin over a certain unfortunate incident during their trip through the Corporate Sector, but Karrde’s mind was already on the task before him. As Mara joined him, he could tell that hers was as well. 

The morning sun cascaded down onto the Imperial Palace, illuminating the landing pad with a bright, almost searing light, but also hiding the identities of the three figures standing under the canopy overhanging the pad accessway tunnel when Karrde and Mara descended the _Wild Karrde’s_ ramp.

Despite not knowing exactly who they were, Karrde could make an educated guess. One certainly was Organa Solo herself. The second figure was less than half her size and had a figure which suggested voluminous robes—probably one of her Noghri guards. The final figure stood about Leia’s height, and though Karrde couldn’t be certain who it was he guessed it was likely Winter, Leia’s personal aide. Karrde stepped down the ramp towards them, Mara following a half-step behind him. She wore her lightsaber openly on her belt, and he wondered (not for the first time) why exactly Skywalker had so blithely given away his father’s priceless weapon.

He and Mara stepped under the overhang and the glare from the sun stopped being an issue. Leia stepped forward, offering her hand—and hesitated, just for a moment, as she noticed the weapon on Mara’s belt. The hesitation was fleeting, given Leia’s strenuous diplomatic training and skill, but nonetheless clear. “Good morning, Councilor. It is a pleasure to see you again” he greeted her as he accepted her proffered hand, drawing her attention fully back to him. “And Lady Winter, of course, elegant as always.”

Winter inclined her head precisely. “Master Trader Karrde,” she replied.

“Welcome back to Coruscant, Talon,” Leia said, apparently fully recovered from whatever surprise the sight of the weapon had inflicted upon her. “You made good time; my last report said you were meeting with representatives of the Corporate Sector on Erysthes. That’s a long way from Coruscant.”

“We did, yes,” Karrde said, declining to go into additional detail. “And Master Trader, did you say?” he said, tasting the words on his tongue. “An Old Republic title used for representatives of the major trading guilds,” he mused, pretending to be surprised to hear the title used. The Smuggler’s Alliance was, in many respects, not functionally different from trading guilds that had existed during the days of the Old Republic. This New Republic was long on ideals, but short on both new ideas and supplies. A galactic sized government always had trouble moving its cargo from place to place, and even more trouble protecting it. 

During the days of the Old Republic, the trade guilds had used their economic (and later political) leverage to encourage the Senate to grant them permission to fully arm their freighters. Eventually, the trade guilds had been very nearly private militaries, deploying their economic, political, and military power to become some of the most influential institutions in the galaxy. 

And his Smugglers’ Alliance was their heir. For better or worse. 

“It must have taken no small effort to convince Admiral Ackbar to allow its use, given his opinion of Smugglers,” he said.

“Not as much as you might think,” Leia replied, her expression neutral. “Gial has never liked needing to convert capital ships into bulk freighters, especially when the Rebellion had to make do with just such conversions in the past. And you have had stalwart advocates with influence in the New Republic Council.”

That was interesting. “Oh?”

“Han, Luke, and Lando have all spoken in your favor at length,” Leia said. “And the Inner Council takes their recommendations very seriously.”

Karrde felt Mara stir slightly at the mention of Skywalker. “I see,” he replied noncommittally, wondering if this meant he owed three new favors. He could be sure that Solo and Calrissian would both try to call in their markers, at least. “Then are the preparations for our formal charter and legitimate operations complete?”

Leia glanced at Winter. “There are still a few things to finalize, such as how exactly the Smuggler’s Alliance will operate, what the New Republic will have the right to require, not to mention questions of equitable pay across such a loose organization,” Winter said in her precise Alderaanian accent, even more pronounced than Leia’s (by design, Karrde suspected).

“I’m not expecting any serious issues,” Leia soothed calmly.

“I hope not,” Karrde replied, letting his voice cool in turn. “Mara and I have managed to bring together most of the major independent shipping concerns into a unified bloc for the first time in centuries. If I have to go back to them and tell them the deal is off, well… unhappiness would be putting it mildly.”

Leia seemed unruffled by his tone. “Our offer of secure, reliable maintenance facilities and the protection of the New Republic fleet against piracy should be quite enticing,” she replied with all the smooth patience of an expert negotiator. “Plus, we won’t skim off your profits.”

An expert negotiator with a smuggler husband. A smuggler husband who knew exactly the value of all three of those things. Karrde smiled, feeling the smile go a bit broader than was strictly necessary. “As we have discussed in the past, Councilor, there should be sufficient common ground for us to make this work.” He accepted her acknowledging smile, knowing that despite the performative contest, in this they were allies. “Finally,” Karrde turned to the last member of the greeting trio, “Mobvekhar clan Hakh’khar,” he greeted the Noghri, feeling himself tense as he fought not to stumble over the pronunciation of the alien name. He hoped it _was_ Mobvekhar, but there was no way to tell under the robes, and he wasn’t sure he could tell two Noghri apart even if he _could_ see them. “As a guest of your Lady, I humbly appeal for your protection.”

Leia’s eyebrows rose in surprise, but Mobvekhar’s robe hidden form didn’t even twitch. “As a guest of the Lady Skywalker, you have the protection of the Noghri,” the Noghri said.

“Thank you,” Karrde said. He’d asked Mara how best to deal with the Noghri on the trip in from the Corporate Sector. He relaxed a bit as her suggestion seemed to work; the aliens made him even more nervous now that he knew how dangerous they really were. “Now that all the formal preliminaries have been conducted on this wonderfully-appointed landing pad, shall we head to your office to smooth out the details?”

“Yes, Master Trader Karrde,” Leia replied respectfully, though he caught the edges of a smile on her lips. “We shall.”

* * *

Three hours into the meeting Mara had gone into maintenance mode until a minor disaster struck. Winter and Karrde had done most of the negotiating at the beginning, the aide acting like a set of impenetrable deflector shields between Karrde and Leia as they finalized details on how exactly members of the Smuggler’s Alliance would go about making maintenance requests, what kinds of requests would be allowed, and which were forbidden. But shortly after lunch Han had called, sounding overwhelmed, and there had been a crash, the sound of something breaking, twin reedy cries, and a Wookiee yelp of alarm on the other end of the comlink. Leia and Winter had taken one look at one another, Leia gave a rueful smile, and without a word Winter had swept out the door, long robes flowing behind her. Somehow she managed to make even a hurried rush look elegant. 

The negotiations continued in Winter’s absence, with Leia ably taking up the slack. So far the meeting had gone well; Mara was quite impressed by the generosity of the New Republic’s offer and she knew Karrde was also, even if neither of them allowed it to show. Given Leia Organa Solo’s Jedi training and heritage, trying to hide such feelings from her was likely futile… but then, people had said the same thing about Darth Vader, and Mara had managed to hide things from him on more than one occasion. 

After quickly agreeing that certain cargoes (slaves in particular) were strictly verboten and that no immunity for those crimes would be extended to members of the Smugglers’ Alliance, Leia and Karrde had moved on to discussing shipping assignments. Ultimately, the Smuggler’s Alliance had two benefits for the New Republic: access to a large number of independent shippers who would take Republican cargoes to their destinations, and access to information from the Fringe that didn’t make its way so easily to the center. But the New Republic wanted to be able to guarantee delivery of certain vital cargoes, and that would mean _forcing_ smugglers to take jobs now and then. Just putting that in the contract would make most of them ornery.

She was sipping her cup of spiced caf and contemplating the problem when they both looked at her. “What do you think, Mara,” Karrde’s voice was polished smoothness, as usual.

“You can’t force smugglers to take a cargo,” she replied after she finished her sip. “They’re contrary by nature. If you tell them they _have_ to do something, they’ll say no just to prove you wrong.”

Leia smiled at that.

“Mara’s right,” Karrde told Leia. “But maybe there’s another way.” He went on, explaining how the old Smuggler cartels, under Jabba the Hutt and others, had assigned runs to this or that smuggler, with sliding scales for pay depending on the value of the shipment, the cost to the smuggler, and how far out of the way each route was. Emulating Jabba wasn’t something that Karrde would normally suggest—Jabba’s business ethics had been execrable—but when it came to managing the Fringe Jabba had definitely been talented.

Mara wasn’t really listening. She and Karrde had worked out all the details of the plan on the trip from the Corporate Sector back to Coruscant. She was quite sure that even if the original proposal didn’t work Karrde and Leia would find one that did. It wasn’t _that_ complicated as things went. Really, the only hitch in the entire plan (from Mara’s perspective) was Mara’s role as Liaison. That would ultimately make the relationship between the Smuggler’s Alliance and the New Republic her responsibility. _Her_ responsibility.

Her _responsibility._

Why was she doing this, she wondered? Because Karrde had asked her to was one reason. She had spent the better part of five years in the worst parts of the Outer Rim, constantly moving, getting in and out of trouble over and over. Sometimes Isard’s agents—who had never given up on catching her, she thought sourly—would catch her scent somehow, usually because she’d let herself get drawn into some local drama or other. She always had, one way or the other; even when she’d found a place that felt safe, found people she’d begun to think she might be able to call friends, something had always happened that sent her on to the next place. Often it had been a surge of Force power, complete with nightmares and the Emperor’s voice. Only once before Karrde had she allowed herself to become truly comfortable and that memory was a painful one; she bit her lip and forced the image of Gorb and Jorshmin’s dead bodies back out of her mind. Karrde had taken her in, provided her sanctuary, given her life purpose again after five years of aimless wandering. She owed him more than he would ever know.

Karrde and Leia were still talking. On reflection, Mara realized one reason she had accepted the Liaison position was simply because Leia had asked her, and if Mara had said no, Leia probably would’ve badgered her until she said yes anyway.

 _Leia Organa Solo_ , she thought. Biological daughter of Darth Vader. While Mara had intellectually processed the fact that Organa Solo was _Darth Vader’s daughter,_ it had not really fully sunk in for her until that moment. 

Mara found herself searching for hints of Vader in Leia’s diminutive countenance. She thought of the times she and Vader had sparred and jockeyed for space and Palpatine’s attention. Vader had been inexorable, pushing onward until he won—or he decided he no longer cared. Maybe that was a hint of his legacy, she thought as Leia launched into another spirited round of debate. The maddening sense of inevitability that surrounded Leia, her ineffable confidence that she would eventually get her way, no matter the obstacles between her and her objective... Vader had possessed that same sense of surety.

Vader had possessed that same sense of surety _except_ when it came to a certain Rebel pilot who had driven him to distraction. 

Her mind moved from Leia to her twin. Did Skywalker possess it too? No, she decided, with Skywalker it was different. He didn’t _know_ he would get his way no matter the obstacles, he _hoped_ he would, hoped with such optimistic ardor that she couldn’t help but hope with him.

 _That_ she _couldn’t help but hope with him?_

Luke had asked her if she would do this too; become the Liaison for the Smuggler’s Alliance. Leia had been sure that Mara would take the position. Luke had merely hoped.

It struck her again how utterly ridiculous all this was. Luke Skywalker and Leia Organa Solo. The talismans of the Rebel Alliance. More than Mon Mothma or Gial Ackbar or Garm Bel Iblis they had symbolized the Rebellion; had been the emotional anchors of the entire enterprise. And the two of them were probably the only two people in the whole New Republic who really, unambiguously trusted her. Who had demonstrably trusted her not just with their own lives, but with the lives of Leia’s children. She still wasn’t sure what to make of that. How did she reconcile her childhood, here in the Imperial Palace, trained by faceless Royal Guardsman, emotionless tutors, and the Emperor himself, and her subsequent life as the Emperor’s Hand, with the unhesitating acceptance offered by these two people?

Stars above, she had literally told Leia that she was going to kill her brother, and Leia had barely blinked. Barely even hesitated! Had helped break Mara out of prison and sent her off on a dangerous mission—armed!—with that same brother! Leia had not only never believed her, Leia had known she wouldn’t.

Skywalker hadn’t ever really believed she would kill him either. He’d been a party to that breakout. He’d made sure she was armed and unrestricted. He’d trained her in the Force, to help her regain the abilities that she had lost—regain them in a way that she would keep them as her own, not gifts of the long-dead Emperor or Skywalker’s own Jedi powers. But he hadn’t done any of it because he _knew_ she wouldn’t kill him… no, he’d done it all because he’d _hoped_.

By the time they had reached Wayland, she’d been hoping too.

She buried that thought deep. The last thing she needed was for Skywalker to decide that she had gone soft.

There was a knock on the door to Leia’s office. “Come in,” Leia called, apparently expecting whoever it was. Mara half turned and watched as General Airen Cracken came into the room. _The head of New Republic Intelligence himself,_ she thought. He was a bit older than she remembered from his Imperial file, and his once-bright red hair had gone completely grey. His face bore deep worry-lines, as she would have expected of a man who had spent his career matching the likes of Ysanne Isard in battles of wits and skulduggery. 

“Councilor Organa Solo,” Cracken greeted her with a nod.

“General,” she replied with a royal smile of her own. “I’m glad you could make it after all.”

“It took some doing,” Cracken responded wryly, “but I couldn’t very well leave you to handle Karrde here on your own. He can be slippery.” His attention moved to Karrde and Mara. “Karrde. It’s been a while since Thyferra. Good to see you again.”

“General, it is always a pleasure, of course,” Karrde said. “I don’t believe you know my associate. This is Mara Jade, my second-in-command and the proposed Primary Liaison between the Smuggler’s Alliance and the New Republic.”

Cracken’s sea-green eyes regarded Mara for a long moment. “Miss Jade. We’ve not been personally acquainted, but I’ve watched your career with great interest.” He smiled, the expression friendly—but Mara recognized the keen awareness of an intelligence professional in the presence of a potential asset behind the smile. 

Mara stiffened, then forced the reflex down. Cracken didn’t seem actively hostile, which was about all she could ask for from the head of New Republic Intelligence, given her history. “General Cracken,” she replied evenly. She held his gaze, not challenging exactly but not retreating either.

After a moment, Cracken gave her a curt nod and abandoned the pretense. She respected that—Isard would have dragged it out. “I don’t suppose you’d be more forthcoming about your Imperial operational history with me than you were with Colonel Bremen last year?” he asked.

Mara could see Leia’s frown out of her peripheral vision—apparently this was a line of inquiry that Cracken had been supposed to avoid—but she couldn’t blame the General for asking. It was also a question she and Karrde had spent some time preparing for on the way to Coruscant. “As a member of the Smugglers’ Alliance,” she began, her tone stiltedly formal, “if it should become operational, one of my obligations will be to deliver to the New Republic information useful to NRI.” Her clear green eyes were calm as she gave the rehearsed answer. “That would include any information acquired through Fringe sources, regardless of _how_ it was acquired.”

Cracken’s eyebrows rose. Leia’s did likewise. “I see,” Cracken replied, sounding thoughtful. “So, the answer is yes… if the Smuggler’s Alliance is formally employed.” His own eyes narrowed. “ _Do_ you have information that would be useful to the New Republic?” he asked. She understood the intent behind the question: she might be using the lure of her knowledge of the Emperor to encourage the New Republic to hire the Smuggler’s Alliance, despite not having anything truly useful. Again, she couldn’t blame Cracken for asking.

“I cannot be certain what is or is not useful to the New Republic,” she answered stiffly. “But I already gave you Wayland.”

“I believe that Mara has earned the right to a little trust, General,” Karrde put in.

“I would agree,” Leia put in from the side, her voice calm but carrying just the slightest ring of commanding reproach.

“Trust is a valuable commodity,” replied Cracken evenly. He watched Karrde and Mara, then turned his gaze fully to Karrde. “We know each other, Karrde. We’ve worked together before. I do trust your word, as much as I trust the word of any member of the Fringe.” He looked at Mara. “And I trust the judgment of Councilor Organa Solo and Jedi Skywalker, both of whom have vouched for you, Miss Jade.”

Mara’s lips pressed together, her eyes flicking briefly to Leia. “I appreciate that,” she replied a bit stiffly. She couldn’t help but notice that Cracken trusted Karrde, Leia, and Skywalker—but not her, despite his friendliness with Organa Solo. That actually raised Mara’s opinion of him and of NRI in general. She could think of numerous occasions when Imperial Intelligence or the Imperial Security Bureau had gotten into trouble for trusting people solely on the basis of who vouched for them.

“As do I,” Karrde said, much more convivially. “If I may, General, I have a suggestion.”

“Go ahead.”

“The Smuggler’s Alliance will need its own liaison with NRI, someone to serve as a go-between between our organization and yours… someone who will know how valuable a piece of information is, and have the independence to work with my people to follow leads.”

Cracken’s eyes narrowed slightly. “That would make sense. Who do you have in mind?”

Karrde held his hands out wide. “Your Agent Wessiri. My people already know her and respect her. Thanks to her collaborations with Booster and Mirax Terrik she has an excellent reputation on the Fringe, and the handful of smugglers who worked in Corellia during her time with CorSec say she was both honest and capable. Intimidatingly so.” He nodded at Mara. “She and Mara would work well together, I think.” 

“You are asking a lot,” Cracken said. “Miss Wessiri is one of my best field agents.”

“And she will continue to be,” Karrde replied.

 _So Agent Wessiri is notable to both Karrde and Cracken,_ Mara thought. Unlike much of Karrde’s crew, she had never met Wessiri. Karrde had in the past mentioned that she would be a good intelligence partner for the Smugglers’ Alliance, but beyond a few offhand mentions of her being a thorn in Ysanne Isard’s side, Mara had no mental picture of her. She envisioned an odd mix of Cracken and Isard, middle-aged, hard-bitten and wearing a blaster-resistant nerfhide jacket. Mara wondered if she had kept her old CorSec badge. 

Cracken examined Karrde for a moment, as if searching for a sign of some nefarious plot. He apparently didn’t find one. “I’ll consider it.”

Leia looked between the three of them, her gaze lingering on Cracken and Karrde. “Will this arrangement work then?” she asked. “I believe Master Trader Karrde and I have already worked out most of the particulars for the Smuggler’s Alliance’s obligations as a transport organization and the New Republic’s for maintenance and escort. If you two agree that we have here the foundations for the intelligence side as well, then I will begin drawing up the final contract.”

“You will ask Agent Wessiri if she will take the position?” Karrde pressed Cracken, apparently intent on securing all the commitments he could with the momentum he had.

“I will.”

“And if she says yes, you will give her the position?”

Cracken hesitated for a moment, then nodded again. “Yes, I will,” he repeated. Karrde glanced at Mara, but she sensed no deception from the General and gave Karrde the barest of nods.

“And if she says no, then you and I will work together to find another suitable candidate?” Karrde pressed.

“I’m sure we can find someone in NRI you will approve of in that eventuality.”

Karrde turned to Leia. “If you would put that on the record, Councilor, then I am satisfied with the preliminary arrangement.” He looked at Mara. “Do you have anything to add, Mara?”

“No.”

“Excellent,” Leia said with obvious satisfaction, making a few notations on her datapad, then hitting a few buttons on her computer. She placed the datapad down on her wooden desk. “I will run the agreement by Mon Mothma and the Inner Council at the meeting tomorrow, but I’m not expecting any difficulties there either.” She offered Karrde a thin smile. “Fey’lya does not much care for you, Talon, but I don’t believe he wants to make an overt enemy of you either.” She offered him a small, almost teasing smile. “Yet.”

“How Borsk Fey’lya feels about me is his business, not mine, Councilor,” Karrde replied coolly. “Mara, shall we return to the _Wild Karrde_?”

“Actually, I was hoping Mara would stay for a bit,” Leia put in quickly. “It’s not business related,” she assured them both, “I’d like her help with a personal matter.”

Mara wasn’t sure if that made her more or less concerned. More, she decided. Definitely more.

“Mara?” Karrde asked.

She hesitated only for a moment. “I can stay.”

“All right,” Karrde said. “Then, General, perhaps you’d be willing to accompany me for a meal. We could discuss the details of the arrangement between the Smuggler’s Alliance and NRI.”

Cracken sighed. “Very well. I know a place that’s secure.”

Karrde offered Leia the slightest bow of his head. “Councilor, it’s been a pleasure as always.” 

Leia smiled back. “Master Trader Karrde,” she acknowledged smoothly. The tone was polite and friendly—and also a clear dismissal. Karrde and Cracken glanced at each other, then Karrde turned to exit, his gaze meeting Mara’s as he did. As his second-in-command, especially over the last few months, they’d worked hard on their non-verbal communication, and she could read him perfectly. _Good luck,_ his expression said. 

* * *

The Imperial Palace was replete with small hideaways, and the one that Cracken brought Karrde to was smaller than most. Tucked away at the end of one of the Palace’s long, isolated office hallways, Karrde got the distinct sensation that he was being watched. Glancing around at the isolated tables and seemingly distracted diners, he suspected that he had been lured into the heart of New Republic Intelligence. He wouldn’t be surprised if everyone there, from the servers on up, was in Cracken’s employ. 

The General settled them into a booth and drew a screen across the opening. Cracken then placed a small device in the middle of the table and activated it, then leaned back in his chair, watching Karrde suspiciously. “I assume this isn’t about the Smugglers’ Alliance,” he said calmly. 

“Not directly,” Karrde admitted. “I wanted to volunteer my services.”

One of Cracken’s greying eyebrows lifted. He crossed one leg over the other casually, his gaze steady on Karrde. “Volunteer?” 

“Free of charge,” Karrde promised. 

“And what, do tell, is so important to Talon Karrde that he’s willing to volunteer his services free of charge to the head of New Republic Intelligence?” 

“I want to do what I can to help the New Republic liberate Ukio from the Empire,” Karrde replied, his tone calm. 

That surprised Cracken, whose expression narrowed suspiciously. “Why?”

Karrde smiled. In this particular case, he knew, honesty was the best policy. Besides, once Cracken heard what he had to offer, the General would have no choice but to play. “I owe it to a friend.”

Cracken waved his hand. “Go on.”

“Samuel Tomas Gillespee,” Karrde continued. “An… old friend of mine. He has been instrumental in helping me bring together the Smugglers’ Alliance, and keep it together. Those who do not trust me, trust him.” Karrde glanced around, checking to see if anyone was being obvious about observing them; no one was. “Gillespee owns land on Ukio. His retirement estate, in fact. He lost it when the Empire occupied the planet during the Thrawn campaign. I can think of no better way of repaying him for all he has done than seeing it restored to him.” 

“And what do you think you can do to help?” Cracken asked slowly. 

Karrde didn’t answer. The waiter brought their meals and both men went quiet as the excellent-looking platters were placed in front of them. Karrde took a bite and was surprised at how good it tasted—surprised, and slightly suspicious. “I suppose every meal here comes with a free listening device?” he asked.

Cracken’s face offered the ghost of a smile. “On the contrary, Karrde. This is the only place in the Palace you can be assured it does not.”

“Ah,” Karrde nodded. That made sense, then. This wasn’t just a normal hideaway, it was NRI’s cafeteria. The food was good enough that the intelligence agents wouldn’t be tempted to eat off campus, and no doubt every single employee, not to mention the entire supply chain, was kept both well-paid and off-book. That Cracken would take him here was curious—it suggested that he was more trusted than Cracken had let on. Or that Cracken wanted him to _think_ he was. 

It didn’t really matter, but these games could be quite fun. 

“In that case,” Karrde continued, forking another bite of the meal before leaning back casually in the chair, which was quite comfortable, “I believe that Mara and I have a lead on an item that the New Republic will very much wish to acquire.” 

“A lead? From where?” Cracken's tone was challenging, but there was that telltale tightening of his back and sharpening of his gaze which betrayed his sudden interest. 

“A disgruntled employee of Rendili StarDrive, as it happens,” Karrde said, taking a sip of his drink. He placed the glass down with a soft clink, then lifted his eyes to Cracken. He knew the General didn’t trust him, not really, and Karrde didn’t blame him. But Karrde had chosen to throw in with the New Republic, and that meant there was no longer any room for half-measures. The marriage between the Smugglers’ Alliance and the New Republic was the future of the Fringe, he was certain of it.

After all, if it was not the future of the Fringe, then Karrde himself had no future to speak of. 

For all the importance of the shipping relationship he’d spent the morning negotiating with Leia and Winter, it was the intelligence side that he truly cared about. And that meant he had to win over one General Airen Cracken. It was important that Karrde present him with an appropriate dowry, to cement their working relationship. 

“And what item did this disgruntled employee offer you?” Cracken asked, allowing Karrde to continue. Karrde appreciated that—spooks, more than most, knew the vital importance of proper presentation. 

He lowered his voice and leaned in close. He waited for the General to lean towards him in return. “The key to Ukio, General Cracken,” he promised, smiling smugly. 

His explanation was short, but it did not need to be long. By the end of the first sentence, Cracken's normally staid composure had broken—only for a moment, but that was moment enough. By the end of the second, Cracken was leaning back in his own chair, an expression of amused astonishment on his face. 

By the end of the third, Karrde lifted his glass back up off the table and offered it for a toast. “All I ask is for Gillespee to get his land back.”

Cracken laughed. “And you’ll never let us forget it, will you.”

Karrde smiled. “Of course not. I am a businessman, General. I always pay my debts, but I also always make sure I’m paid what I’m owed.”


	5. Chapter Four

As the Coruscant sun moved in the sky over Imperial City, the windows of Leia’s office automatically tinted to adjust for the glare. The room was cast in shadow for a moment; Mara’s eyes took a moment to adjust to the change in lighting. Throughout the discussion Mara had been taking in the room, trying to get a sense of Organa Solo’s public face. Most of the furniture – the desk, the pair of bookshelves, the side tables, all of the chairs – were made of a wood with a distinctive dark coloring, probably Kriin oak from Alderaan. With Karrde’s energy now absent and business concluded, the office instantly grew more somber.

Leia stood and turned away, pouring two fresh cups of caf despite the hour. “Do you want anything added to yours, Mara?”

“No, thank you,” Mara replied. “I usually just drink it as is; it’s stronger that way.”

Leia offered her a smile. “No preference for taste?”

It was an idle question, a probing of her preferences, her mundane likes and dislikes, but it felt oddly personal. She could count on one hand the number of times people had asked her that kind of question while she was in Imperial Palace. It felt almost invasive, although it was doubtful Leia intended it as such. “I like the spiced blend you serve,” Mara replied honestly. “It doesn’t need anything else.”

Leia settled back into her chair and placed Mara’s caf down on a coaster. “How are you, Mara?” Leia asked, and if the question about her preferences hadn’t been probing, this definitely was. Mara felt her instincts kick in, felt the urge to make idle, meaningless small talk while she evaded whatever ill intent her conversation partner had in asking such questions… but only for a moment. She sipped her caf, took a breath, let it out slowly. No, Leia wasn’t interrogating her. Leia’s small talk wasn’t meant to be invasive, it had no insidious purpose. Mara wasn’t on assignment. It was just small talk. Regular people made small talk all the time. She tried to force herself to relax.

But there was something about the way Leia looked at her that made Mara feel transparent.

Mara sat back, hoping that physically relaxing against the seat would help her mentally relax, and considered her answer carefully. After she’d left Coruscant she and Karrde had spent weeks on the _Wild Karrde_ , recruiting for the Smuggler’s Alliance and establishing new contacts and trade routes. Then Karrde and Aves had left on their own business, and she had commanded the _Wild Karrde_ herself for the first time. She’d fallen into the authority offered her without hesitation; the routes they’d run had been simple and profitable.

The solitude—the crew had largely left her be—had been a blessing. Without the Emperor’s voice in her head, with the Force answering to her call once more, she had taken the opportunity to practice her abilities, even including some of Skywalker’s meditation techniques. Her skill with the lightsaber had returned with only a minimum of rust, which she had quickly stripped away.

Most importantly Mara’s mind was her own, perhaps for the first time in her entire life—at least, for the first time since Palpatine had taken her from her parents. Who was the Emperor’s Hand without the Emperor? She could remember after the Emperor’s death wondering the same thing, but she realized now that his death had not truly meant his absence. Even discounting his voice, he’d continued to define her through the damage he had inflicted, and the consuming void his absence had left in her life.

The image of Luuke Skywalker’s dead face after she slashed him across the chest was still vivid in her mind. With the clone’s death had come _true_ freedom, and the Emperor’s Hand was finally, mercifully dead.

Karrde understood, even if he never said as much out loud; it may even have been why he’d left her alone on the _Wild Karrde_ while he and Aves traveled on the _Last Resort_. 

She had been quiet for much too long, Leia was still watching her with an expression that was much too knowing for Mara’s liking, and perhaps the sudden pressure to say _something_ made her answer more honestly than she normally would have. “I’m not really sure how I’ve been,” she replied, cradling the mug, wary of revealing how vulnerable she felt but finding herself doing it anyway. “Less sure about things than when we met, I suppose.” 

“You look… happier,” Leia said softly, as her brown eyes watched Mara much too knowingly for Mara’s comfort.

Mara offered Leia a tight smile. “I’m not really used to thinking about my happiness,” she admitted.

“It’s important not to forget it,” Leia said soothingly. “I can get so lost in my responsibilities and in the needs of the New Republic that I forget what makes me happy.” She shook her head. “I even almost let the New Republic marry me off to Prince Isolder of Hapes because I put everything but myself first.” She took a sip of her own caf. “Sometimes I forget I’m not just Councilor Organa Solo of the New Republic. I’m also Han’s wife and Jacen and Jaina’s mother. Luke’s sister. But it’s hard to take the professional face off when it feels like the galaxy rests on my shoulders… or when it’s the only thing keeping me together.”

Mara hid her discomfiture by sipping her caf. That sounded alarmingly familiar. She sat, nodded in a way she hoped conveyed sympathy or understanding without revealing too much of her own feelings, and waited for Leia to continue. But Leia just sighed, looking out the window. The Senate building could be seen beneath them through the tinted transparisteel, its large mushroom dome structure gleaming with the afternoon sun. The silence lingered longer until Mara finally surrendered and broke it. “Is there anything I can do to help, Councilor?” 

Leia sent her a wry smile. “You can call me Leia when we’re alone, Mara.” The words made Mara blink twice. They hadn’t had that many private conversations; this was really only the third she could think of. That wasn’t usually enough to privilege someone with name instead of title… “You saved my life, and my husband’s life, and the lives of my twins, and the life of my brother,” Leia spoke into her musings. “Chewbacca would say that makes us family.”

“I’m not a Wookiee.” Mara’s voice sounded a bit distant to her ears.

“You’re not, but I’ve spent enough time with Chewbacca to have grown my climbing claws,” Leia joked. Mara chuckled, surprised at the riposte. “I just wanted to see how you were doing and to ask you a favor,” Leia said, her expression darkening a bit.

“A favor?” Mara asked cautiously. “What kind of favor?”

Leia put down her mug and folded her hands on her desk, her expression darkening further. “I was hoping you’d go talk to Luke,” she said. “Something is bothering him and he won’t talk to me or Han about it. And his other friends—Lando, Wedge, the rest of the Rogues—are all offworld.” She idly stroked her left hand with her right thumb. “He doesn’t have all that many close friends.” Leia said absently.

Mara wasn’t sure what surprised her more: the implication that Leia thought Mara Jade was a close friend of Luke Skywalker, the request itself, or Leia’s unhappy tone. She took a moment, letting her brain process what Leia was asking. She could say no… but she really couldn’t. One couldn’t just tell Leia Organa Solo no, especially not after Leia Organa Solo had just claimed you as almost family. And it wasn’t like she was _avoiding_ Skywalker. They had even fallen into something of a routine, continuing her Force training before she’d left Coruscant with Karrde. Mara felt the stirrings of obligation tug at her and sighed inwardly.

She wondered vaguely if this was what made Leia such an effective diplomat. Mara wasn’t even sure whether Leia was manipulating her on purpose. “Where is he?”

Leia looked up, as if drawn from her own distant musings. “He’s spent a lot of time in the Emperor’s Jedi Museum of late.”

Mara frowned and quickly racked her brain. “I was practically raised in the Palace, I’ve never heard of a Jedi Museum.” She’d been through all the exhibits of the Imperial Museum and there hadn’t been more than one dedicated to the Jedi of the Old Republic, and even that had been little more than an explanation of their treachery. Palpatine had done all he could to destroy their memory.

“Next door,” Leia explained with a small frown of her own. “It was a concealed wing of the Imperial Museum. We stumbled across it after we captured Coruscant. You weren’t familiar with it?”

“No,” Mara said. That was odd, but Palpatine had kept plenty of secrets, even (perhaps especially) from his Hand.

“Well, Luke spent some time there after it was first discovered, and he’s been spending more time there the last week or so.” Leia frowned. “He’s been distant and distracted, and it’s not like him. And he won’t talk about it, at least not with me.” Her frown deepened, and Mara could sense that Leia’s worry—and frustration—both ran deep. “I was hoping…” she gestured at Mara, “that maybe you would be able to help.”

“Why me?” Mara asked, and instantly regretted the question. Her regret must have been obvious, too, at the slight amusement that tugged at Leia’s frown.

“As I said, Luke doesn’t have many friends. He’ll be happy to see you…” Leia’s voice trailed off and the smile vanished back into the frown. Mara could see the hint of pain in her brown eyes. “He might talk to you about some of the things he doesn’t like talking with me about.” 

There it was again—Leia’s casual assumption that Skywalker was her friend. She wasn’t his confidante! She should correct the misapprehension, she knew, but if she did Leia might try to argue with her, convince her that Skywalker _was_ her friend, and stars only knew where that debate would end. “Fine,” Mara replied instead, a bit more gruffly than she’d really intended.

Leia just smiled. “Thank you, Mara. If you need anything, just let me know. Oh, and tell Talon that you and he are invited to dinner with us at least once before you both go back off-world.”

 _Dinner?_ Mara felt disturbingly off-kilter. It was time to end the conversation before Leia surprised her again. She took a slow breath as she stood up, covering her momentary lack of composure with the motion. “Of course,” she said instead of asking any more questions. Questions were dangerous. “Good afternoon, Counci—” she caught the word in her throat at Leia’s imperious look. Feeling dazed, she corrected. “—Leia.”

“Better,” Leia said approvingly, “It’s always good to see you, Mara.”

Despite the waning light, she felt warmer, and this time she knew exactly why. 

  
  


The Imperial Museum had reopened in stages for the last three years. Thanks to the passcard Leia had given her, Mara had been permitted entry to one of the yet-unopened wings of the Museum. She found herself in a darkened, empty space once she was past the handful of security guards at the entrance. Where once there would be lines waiting for tickets or admission, there was now just an empty marble floor. Where once there would have been gatherings of Coruscanti or wealthy offworlder schoolchildren, come to celebrate the Empire and learn of its history, there was the gleam of evening sunlight off abandoned benches and a deep, lonely silence.

During the height of the Empire the museum had been one of the main tourist attractions on Coruscant, with exhibits that dated back to the Clone Wars, detailing the history of Senator Palpatine and the other heroes of the Old Republic who had reforged that decrepit institution into the New Order. It had been a mainstay of Imperial political philosophy that all governments inevitably declined, and that the Old Republic, millennias old, had long since passed into its dotage and beyond. Such decay could only be fought with the vigor of great men, those same scholars said, chosen and blessed by fate—and as such Senator Palpatine was all that held the Empire together and prevented its slide back into decrepitude and chaos. Anything that predated Palpatine’s rule had been forgotten or marginalized as unimportant. Today, New Republic academics were restoring the museum, revising each exhibit with sourced, true information, and obtaining provenance for and repatriating looted art and artifacts from all across the Galaxy. 

Mara could remember her first trip to the Imperial Museum; to the majesty and the myth. It had been soon after she had been brought to the Imperial palace, she thought, though it was impossible to be sure; all her memory was suspect, given Palpatine’s likely interference. Over the years it had been a place she frequented, on and off—a reminder of purpose and of pride. She was the Emperor’s Hand, chosen by Palpatine himself. She fought the internal corruption and decay that would destroy all government, all order, if given the chance. Vader dealt with the Rebellion because he had all the subtlety of a bantha stampede; she was the scalpel, the precise instrument, the remover of cancers of all kinds.

She hadn’t returned to the Imperial museum since she fled Coruscant with Ysanne Isard’s goons close on her heels, and she hadn’t thought to visit after the Thrawn campaign, so this was the first time she’d stepped foot inside the museum in six years; the first time she’d stepped foot inside the museum since she’d fulfilled the Emperor’s last command.

More importantly, it was the first time she’d stepped foot inside the museum since she’d realized Palpatine had been a fraud. Just stepping inside this place again, remembering how it had made her so proud, was enough to make her skin crawl and put a bitter, coppery taste in her mouth.

She had disdained the Empire after Palpatine’s death because to her eyes it had become a tool for naked, unprincipled ambition. Loyalty had meant nothing to Pestage or Isard or Thrawn, or to any of the other warlords. The Empire under them would be just as corrupt as the Old Republic before Palpatine, and perhaps even more so. None of them were the “Great Man” Palpatine had been. But the Empire _always_ had been just a tool for naked, unprincipled ambition. Everything Palpatine, everything her tutors, everything her fellow citizens had ever told her had been lies. Everything in this museum had presented the Empire as the galaxy’s salvation, as an institution of perfect justice for all—how each and every citizen would always receive _precisely_ what they deserved—it had always been a lie. Always. All for Palpatine’s own benefit.

How could she have been so, so blind? She thought back to her memories of the Emperor, of her joy at his praise, at the comfort of his presence when he touched her mind, and now all of it left her bitter cold.

 _I was a child. I should have been left to be a child._

The museum had been constructed years before Palpatine repurposed it into the story of his grand rise to power; well-maintained marble floors and towering columns lining each wide hallway, with long, curved transparisteel ceilings. Light poured in from above, glare reduced to an acceptable level. Everything in the to-be-revised sections was covered with a faint layer of dust, except where construction teams were steadily removing old exhibits for eventual replacement with new ones. It would be another few years before the museum fully reopened as the Grand Museum of the Republic, but in the interim it had no guests in this wing, leaving it with an appropriately empty and abandoned feel.

 _No one else should be subject to Palpatine’s lies_ , she thought bitterly. _Not ever again. The old fraud._

During her time commanding the _Wild Karrde,_ alone with only Dankin and Chin and Karrde’s damned vornskrs for company, she had spent some time wondering why Palpatine hadn’t turned her into an agent of the Dark, as he had Vader. Why leave her illusions intact? Why let her believe that justice meant something more than whatever Palpatine desired, Palpatine received? Being back in this museum she thought maybe she understood. Palpatine had never wanted the galaxy as a whole to see him for what he was; his strength was supported by pillars of illusion, of the lies that had filled this museum. Mara herself had been just another propaganda tool: she had been the Emperor’s Hand and when she arrived, the _illusion_ of justice inevitably followed, leaving all those in her wake convinced by the strength of her example that whatever misdeeds were committed by other Imperials, whatever men like Tarkin did, the _Emperor_ was good and fair and just.

They would believe it because _she_ believed it. Because she came on his behalf, acting in his name, and she did her best to live up to virtues that… meant less than nothing to Palpatine. Virtues he had actively and thoroughly _despised_. 

This was not the first time she’d let thoughts like these tie her in knots. By the time she had found the long, seemingly abandoned hallway that would bring her to the Jedi wing of the museum she had begun the process of unwinding the tension she’d let build in her gut. By the end of the long corridor she was even-keeled enough to remember that these bouts of self-recrimination were helping no one, least of all herself. She was Mara Jade, not the Emperor’s Hand. Letting the… ambiguities… of her past pull her down would not help her heal. She shouldn’t dwell on it. She could hear the advice spoken in Luke’s damnably calm, quietly passionate voice.

If only doing it was as easy as saying it. 

There was a noticeable change in décor as Mara exited the corridor into the unmarked Jedi Museum, using the passkey Leia had given her to gain entrance. The large doors opened without complaint, but they released stale-smelling, musty air. Darkness and spider webs replaced muted sunlight. The heavy doors closed behind her once again, leaving her alone in the unfamiliar space.

The room was long and rectangular, with footsteps etched in the thick layers of dust on the floor and dangling web-strands hanging from the ceiling so thick she had to sweep them aside with her arm. She contemplated using her lightsaber to slice her a path, but if Skywalker was here then clearly he hadn’t done that already. She refused to allow herself less composure than the Tatooine farmboy. Her lightsaber remained on her belt.

Her skin abruptly went cold and she almost stopped dead. The Dark Side was so thick here it made her nearly choke. The sense of malevolence, of stinging chastisement, of dark, unrestrained gloating sang with Palpatine’s voice. She shivered at the unrepentant hate.

This wasn’t a museum, she thought with quiet, dreading awe as she stepped into the space. It was a mausoleum. She was surrounded by relics; statues and occasional holo-images, surprisingly well maintained given how long it had obviously been since this place had received regular maintenance. Statues of fallen Jedi, paired with relics of their passing. The statues had been defaced or decapitated, and in her mind’s eye she could see Palpatine’s rage-filled face as he personally destroyed each of them in his ritual of gloating.

She stepped near one of the statues. It was a woman’s body, though the statue—like many of the others—did not have a face. “An’ya Kuro,” a voice from the base of the statue said. “Jedi Master, she served with distinction during and after the Clone Wars.” A hologram appeared, but Mara didn’t recognize the woman’s face even from the holo. There were other pieces of memorabilia around her, including a lightsaber. _Trophies_ , Mara thought disgustedly.

She looked around, stepping away from the exhibit and realized there were dozens more. She continued on, passing statue after statue… hundreds of them. Perhaps many hundreds. This had been the Old Republic’s Jedi Museum, she realized, but Palpatine had closed it and turned it instead into the list of his victories. Every defaced or otherwise disfigured Jedi was a Jedi that Palpatine had seen dead, one way or another.

There were _so many._ Mara stepped close to a few exhibits, giving them closer looks. Ranik Solusar was also missing his face, and Mara wondered if there was some specific meaning in that. There was a collection of his possessions at the statue’s feet—a lightsaber, a datapad, and a ring, among others. Another statue, deeper in, still had most of a face; it looked like it had been shot repeatedly with a blaster. “Siri Tachi, Jedi Master,” the voice said. “Apprentice to Adi Gallia and Master of Ferus Olin, she was frequently a companion to Obi-Wan Kenobi.” The mention of Kenobi’s name made Mara step in for a closer look, but Tachi had been killed years before the advent of the Empire. Strangely, none of her possessions—including her lightsaber—were present, and Mara wondered idly if that had something to do with the way she had been killed.

A dull guilt tugged at her. Mara hadn’t ever been a Jedi hunter; had never encountered a Jedi before Luke. But she had been a party to their deaths; had been complicit—deceived, but complicit—and thus responsible. Ultimate blame of course belonged to the Emperor, but if she’d seen through his deftly-sewn veil of lies… 

Mara suddenly understood, looking at Solusar and Tachi’s statues, why these rooms reeked with the Emperor’s wrath. Yes, his presence was still overpoweringly _present_ , if far duller and more diffused than it was where he had died at Endor. But the light in these exhibits wasn’t extinguished, merely buried as if covered in layer after layer of tarpaulins, each dipped in the awful, clinging residue of the Emperor’s presence. He could only kill them, Mara thought, and she smiled at the stubbornly determined expression Tachi wore for her holo, remembering something Skywalker had said.

 _“There is no death, there is the Force.”_

Even with all his forbidden studies, his malevolence, Palpatine had failed to understand his enemy. He couldn’t _defeat_ them.

Was that what Skywalker was doing here? Expelling the Emperor’s lingering malevolence one day at a time? Replacing it with his own, much more welcoming presence? Probably.

She turned away from the statues towards the passageway into the next room. She could feel Skywalker’s presence now, a breath of fresh air, light pushing back darkness. The Emperor’s presence felt faded in comparison to the bright spirit of the living Jedi. She’d been nervous about seeing him again, she admitted, but in that moment she couldn’t for the life of her remember why exactly that had been.

She followed the thread that connected them, feeling his presence in her mind. The doors between them parted to admit her, the cobwebs sundered by his own earlier passage. As she neared his presence, she sensed a firm foundation of sun-warmed stone; she gripped the thread that connected them and she used it to draw nearer as, unnoticed, the last vestiges of Palpatine’s fog burned away.

When she finally reached him, what she found wasn’t exactly what she’d expected. Her lips blossomed into a surprised smile and she laughed. “Dignified as always, Skywalker.” 

* * *

Luke Skywalker, Force Ghost-anointed “First of the New Jedi,” felt anything but peaceful and serene. It had been a long six weeks since Wedge and Rogue Squadron had left Coruscant to join Garm Bel Iblis’ campaign to retake Ukio and sunder the Imperial hold that Grand Admiral Thrawn had re-established over the galactic southeast. He wasn’t sure how Ben would feel about a Jedi having drinking buddies, but he missed them all the same. 

Luke’s arrival on Coruscant after the planet’s conquest a few years before had been one of utter wonderment. During his childhood, Uncle Owen had always dismissed Coruscant as irrelevant and opulent to the point of wastefulness, an ecumenopolis that consumed food, water and resources and spat out poor governance, ineffectual and corrupt at best, malicious at worst; Aunt Beru had rarely discussed it at all, other than to say that when she was young, it had been the bright center of the galaxy, where millions of people came together as one. Luke had quickly learned that both Owen and Beru had been correct. And he wondered what his father had made of the planet. 

The decision to move the New Republic’s capital to Coruscant had been for symbolism more than anything else, but Luke knew that Leia had never been completely certain the move had been a wise one. Geography was power, and Coruscant’s ancient political establishment was steadily working to re-establish itself within the old halls of the New Republic.

Except one part of that ancient political establishment: the Jedi Order. The Jedi had always been both part of and separate from galactic politics; present, influential, but kept at a deliberate distance. The older political leaders who remembered the galaxy before Palpatine wiped out the Jedi had told Luke a lot about how things had used to be, before the Empire, but a lot about the actual power dynamics and responsibilities between the Jedi and the galactic government remained frustratingly vague.

Growing up as a moisture farmer, dreaming of being a pilot, Luke had never imagined that it would become _his_ responsibility to help recreate and lead what was arguably the single most influential institution in galactic history. And here at the heart of government? That influence was power. Seductive, succulent, dangerous power, power which had destroyed many a Jedi of the Old Republic, tempted by everything from avarice to lust to the deceptive lure of easy solutions.

Even after he had been given the task of recreating the Jedi Order, and had accepted it, he hadn’t really realized what it would mean. But the responsibility had fallen to him and—especially now that the leaders of the New Republic had begun to seriously consider re-organizing the galactic government from its current, provisional state to a (hopefully) more permanent one—uncertainty about what was best increasingly paralyzed him.

The problem—or, one problem—was that the New Republic’s leadership all more or less assumed that the Jedi would be a part of the new political establishment, and would logically be organized along with and as a constituent component of the New Republic. Leia especially just took for granted that the Jedi order would be formally re-established along with the New Republic, aiming towards a full restoration of _the way things had been before_.

But Luke wasn’t sure that was the right thing. Was this the right time to create a Jedi order? Was he prepared to teach the new Jedi to join that order? Was being part of the New Republic, either formally or informally, right for people who should serve _all_ life, not just the citizens of the Republic? And was he, Luke Skywalker, a moisture farmer from Tatooine, with limited formal education and no political training other than what minimal tutoring Leia had provided after the victory at Endor, ready to become a major _political_ figure? It was bad enough being the New Republic’s only Jedi as it was.

Leia had enough on her mind, and Luke didn’t want to add to her myriad of worries and responsibilities. On top of that, he was slightly fearful that he and she would disagree about the right answer; that her commitment to the New Republic would lead her to a perspective about the Jedi with which he would be compelled to refute. He wasn’t ready to fight with Leia about it. Not now, and not ever really. 

He was avoiding her, she had to know he was, and it had to hurt. He didn’t need to spend as much time in Palpatine’s Jedi museum as he was... though the Force pulled him back here when he opened himself to it, like there was something he needed to find. And it was a convenient excuse to avoid her. Avoid everyone official, really.

He’d spent weeks cleaning away cobwebs, restoring exhibits, checking and repairing lightsabers, reading entries, looking for guidance, wondering if perhaps once Palpatine’s presence was banished if the spirits of the Jedi memorialized in the museum might appear to him and offer him the guidance he sought. So far they hadn’t but he felt like his meditations were productive, and the Force kept teasing him with some hint of useful knowledge that he couldn’t quite reach. It was like he’d forgotten a word and it was just on the tip of his tongue but he couldn’t… quite… remember it… 

Luke flexed, his arm muscles straining. His wrists ached and he reached out to the Force to relax the tension building in them from the weight pressing down. His legs flexed a little as he carefully balanced the handstand, bringing his ankles closer together. When Yoda had first taught him handstand meditation, back on Dagobah, he had thought the Jedi Master had been playing a practical joke on him, and there were still times Luke suspected that perhaps Yoda had been. But the practice was excellent for focusing the mind.

 _“Concentrate. Feel the Force flow,”_ he heard Yoda’s voice in his memories. _“Good. Calm. Through the Force, things you will see.”_

His eyes wavered shut, the meditation growing deeper as the world around him; the smells of the musty Jedi Museum, the lingering presence of Palpatine, his own sense of unease all faded away as the Force sustained him. He exhaled, stale breath leaving his lungs to be replaced by fresh; the Force strengthening his muscles and calming his mind. There… a voice, dark and confident, and another younger and less certain. He couldn’t hear either of their words, the image hazy, but there was the snap-hiss of a lightsaber and the steady buzzing of the ignited blade, a blue glow cast around. Was this the future, he thought? The future of the Jedi order? Or perhaps it was the past, the training of the Jedi that had once occurred on this planet? Why would the Force need to show him this, why now?

He sank deeper into the trance, his arms straining and dripping with sweat as he sustained the handstand, his breathing slowing further still. He concentrated on the image, looking for anything useful; the lightsaber hummed and buzzed as it was swung, voices too hazy to be understood continued with the intonation of teacher and student. _I don’t understand_ , he thought, but in the words he heard a plaintive tone that Yoda would have chastised him for. He let the frustration go and could feel an echo of Yoda’s satisfaction.

Something was different now. There was another presence, brighter and more vivid. The image of master and student faded under the bright glare of its light; warmth and humor and carefully banked affection washing over him. The Force was never so forthright with its approval, he thought happily, in fact…

A woman laughed, a bright, amused laugh that was totally unexpected and instantly recognizable. The vision banished, Luke’s eyes shot open. There, a few meters away from him, peering upside down at him with bright, dazzling green eyes and good humor that sent an unexpected jolt through him, was Mara Jade.

“Dignified as always, Skywalker,” she teased him, though the words bore no malice.

Her presence, her smile really, pulled him fully out of the trance. He opened his mouth to respond, but with his focus split between her and the Force the strain of the handstand, and the inexorability of gravity, was suddenly too much. With a sound that started with the first few letters of her name and ended with a surprised yelp, Luke fell backwards and hit the floor. 

“Aww, Mara,” he groaned as the pain from the impact shot through him. Her presence in the Force was not so encompassing now that he had exited the trance, but he could feel a myriad of emotions radiating from her; a mix of fading nervousness and humor and cautious affection that lingered in his mind. 

She laughed, smiling. He groaned again as he sat up, reaching out to the Force to soothe his complaining arm muscles. How long had he been holding that handstand, anyway? He shook his head, rubbing his arms. 

“Interesting place you found here, Skywalker,” Mara said from above him. Her smile still hadn’t left her face and Luke took a moment to just watch her smile. He could still remember the first time he saw her really smile at him, and the second. He wasn’t sure what it was that made _her_ smile so intoxicatingly attractive. Maybe it was because he’d only known her scowl for so long.

Luke forced himself to look away, fearing he would make her uncomfortable, and gestured at the exhibits around them. “The Emperor destroyed everything he could,” he replied. “What he didn’t destroy or corrupt, he brought here. There’s so much here, but his presence still infects this place.” He sighed heavily, staring at the ceiling; the mahogany-colored wood was still covered with spider webs.

“I know, I can feel it,” Mara replied softly, sitting next to him. Together they sat in companionable silence for a moment; Luke recovering, Mara making her peace with her memories.

Luke reached out, his hand brushing her leg gently. She looked down at him, her eyebrow arching. “Welcome back to Coruscant,” he said with a smile. “How was your trip around the galaxy?”

She threw him a patient look. “The trip was productive,” she replied. “We learned a few useful things that the New Republic ought to find valuable, and so far the Fringe is holding together better than I would’ve expected it to. The dream of the Smuggler’s Alliance isn’t dead, though I think the only thing really holding it together right now is Karrde’s reputation.”

Luke’s gaze was unwavering. “And you?”

She rolled her eyes at him.

With a groan Luke sat up and shifted towards her, his knee resting accidentally against hers. She looked down at where they touched, as if considering an alien experience. Luke tensed, prepared for her to object or needle, but she didn’t do either. He nudged her with his knee, and her attention was drawn back to his face. “You came looking for me? I’m touched.”

Mara nudged him back aggressively, her knee knocking against his in a way that was just a little bit painful. He winced. “Your sister sent me,” she retorted, her leg settling back so that there was a bare minimum of space between them. “She’s worried about you.”

“Leia sent you?” Luke said in wonderment. He thought about all the ways he could point out how undeniably odd it was for her to be doing Leia a favor, but he felt her tensing and preparing a pointed retort and decided not to poke the krayt dragon. He sighed instead and rubbed his temple, retreating back into his earlier concerns about the Jedi and the Republic.

“Skywalker?”

Her voice brought him back out of the passing miasma. “Do you remember that conversation we had on Wayland?” he asked, turning his head to look at her again. “When we talked about how to teach young Jedi? You told me that ultimately the only way to teach Jedi to be just and honorable and conscientious was through example.”

Mara nodded. “Are you still worried about that?” When he didn’t respond immediately her knee nudged his gently, and he looked up to see her expression. She looked back, attentive.

He nodded. “Yes, of course, but…” his voice trailed off and the frustrations that had driven him to meditation bubbled up once again. He saw her gaze narrow, felt her lean towards him. He hadn’t felt like he could talk to Leia about this, not with her responsibilities in the government, and if he couldn’t talk to Leia, then he couldn’t talk to Han. Wedge was off planet, Lando was away putting Nkllon back together, but Mara was here. Listening. “Mara, what does it mean to be a Jedi?”

She frowned at him, puzzled. “That’s an odd question to be asking me, especially here.”

“Not really,” Luke replied. “Being out in the galaxy, so many people have ideas about what it means to be a Jedi. For some people we’re the embodiments of good and justice; others remember us as evil or corrupt or disinterested. For some we’re military heroes; for others, we’re villains who leave legacies and death and destruction. For some, we’re wise sages and problem solvers and dispensers of justice; for others, we’re lazy and entitled fools who think we know better than we actually do.” 

She stared at him and an expression of understanding fell over her eyes. “So, what is a Jedi, actually?” she asked him.

“We listen to the Force and let it guide us,” he murmured. “Beyond that,” he shrugged. “I’ve never felt like I was any of those things. Just a man from Tatooine with useful abilities.” He sighs softly. “I don’t know if I can be what Leia wants me to be,” he admitted.

“I’m not sure I’m the right person to ask,” Mara said, looking through him more than at him. “I was all of those things on your list too, when I was the Emperor’s Hand.” She was silent for a long moment; he pushed his sudden, fragile hopes for them aside, reminding himself yet again that the last thing Mara needed was him further complicating her life. “I guess my life is a lesson. I think I always knew Palpatine was evil,” she admitted. “Deep down, I knew something was wrong. I should have known something was wrong. But I didn’t listen to the Force, or even to my own best judgment. I listened to him.” She looked down. “I should have known better,” she admitted softly.

Luke’s hand slid over hers, his fingers wrapping around hers and squeezing. It was an impetuous gesture, and he was relieved when she didn’t quickly pull away. “You couldn’t have,” he reassured her. 

“I could have,” she retorted hotly. “I’m not a fool, Skywalker. I saw the Empire, I saw the Emperor, I saw the people he surrounded himself with. But I let him tell me they were necessary evils, let him tell me it was for the greater good. I let him lie to me. I was willfully blind.” Her fingers were hard around his now, a hint of pain twinging his hand from where hers squeezed it. With a grimace she relaxed her grip. “I trusted him more than I trusted myself,” she murmured. “I trusted his word over my own experience.” She squeezed his hand and then released it, leaving his skin cold without hers against it. “Your Jedi should _never_ do that. Not ever. Not for anyone.”

He nodded.

“Is this what has been bothering you for weeks?” she asked.

He shrugged. “It’s a big problem. If the Jedi Order isn’t part of the New Republic, does that mean we’re autonomous? That brings all kinds of its own issues.”

“Funding, for one,” Mara pointed out.

He stilled at her words… but no, she couldn’t know. He nodded choppily. “Unless we can find some external funds,” he agreed more calmly than he felt. “Enough to make us independent.”

She eyed him suspiciously, but if she suspected he was holding something back she decided not to call him on it. “Yeah, well, good luck with that. One Jedi, or even a handful, won’t need that much in the way of credits, but a whole Order will. And I doubt you’ll want to be demanding pay for your services.”

“We’re not mercenaries,” he said firmly. “I’ll need to think about this some more. Maybe ask some other people who have a vested stake.” He nudged her knee with his and smiled at her. “In the meantime, I assume you’re back on Coruscant for the time being?”

Mara wrinkled her nose and nodded. “Yes, at least for the next few months I’ll need to be here in my role as liaison, getting the Smuggler’s Alliance and its formal links to the New Republic’s shipping and intelligence services up and running.” She winced. “This is going to be like herding pittins,” she muttered.

“You can do it Mara. I know you can.” He smiled at her.

She sent him a sideways look. “I _can_ but that doesn’t mean I’m going to _enjoy_ it,” she retorted.

Luke laughed. “Well, I hear the trick with pittins is having a couple of small boxes that they fight to try and sit in.” He paused, watching her. “You know,” he said, serious again, “if you have any free time while you’re here, I’d enjoy a training partner.” He heard the hope in his voice and tried to tamp down on it. He didn’t just ask Mara about the Jedi because she was Force-strong, or even because he thought of her as a friend, but because he hoped that someday she would join him as a Jedi. He saw in her the future of the order, a companion who understood the Force and understood its abuse.

He saw in her an _equal_.

Someday. If she wanted. When she was ready.

Her gaze told him that she thought he was thoroughly insane, probably for a dozen different reasons. He just smiled at her, watching the hint of turmoil, feeling her internal conflict, hoping. “If I have time,” she conceded, then rolled her eyes again as she undoubtedly felt his burst of relief and joy at her tepid agreement. 

“I was about to get something to eat; it’s getting late and I haven’t had anything since lunch,” Luke said. “Care to join me?” He stood, then offered her his hand.

She looked up at him, then placed her hand in his. “Sure,” she said. “I know a few good places around here.” She offered him a wry smile, using his support to pull herself to her feet. “Or I did, anyway.”

Luke chuckled. “Lead on, I’m sure we’ll figure something out.”

  
  



	6. Chapter Five

As the Wing Commander of General Bel Iblis’ fighter group, Wedge normally rated a suite aboard the flagship. Space was always a luxury aboard a warship, but the General’s tabs he had finally allowed Admiral Ackbar to pin to his chest came with some recompense (even with the added flimsiwork). His quarters on _Orthavan_ boasted a full-sized refresher with a real shower, a living room with space for several guests to fit comfortably around a table, and a real, full-sized bed in a separate chamber. After so many years stuffed into bunkrooms with other pilots, his quarters on _Orthavan_ sometimes felt spacious and quiet to the point of absurdity. When it got too quiet on nightwatch Wedge almost missed being able to hear Hobbie snoring. Almost. 

Unfortunately, Wedge’s quarters on the _Ession Strike_ were more cramped than what he had aboard _Orthavan_. Originally Warlord Zsinj’s _Night Caller,_ while the _Strike_ had received a new coat of paint and furnishings and thankfully felt much homier than the last time Wedge had served aboard her, the corvette was still much smaller than a Star Cruiser. Captain Tabanne had offered Wedge the ship’s captain’s quarters when Rogue Squadron had been moved from _Orthavan_ to _Ession Strike_ for the Hishyim operation, but Wedge wasn’t about to put Atril out of her stateroom and refuge for the sake of temporary comfort. So he crammed back into pilots’ quarters with a rack best described as a cot and a desk that folded into the wall. The refreshers, of course, were communal at the end of the hall. It felt like home, but his back was starting to complain and he swore the quarters had shrunk since he was last aboard with the Wraiths. 

It would only be a few more days, he thought to himself, reviewing the datapad that Tycho had sent over for his evaluation with a sigh. Then the Rogues would transfer back to _Orthavan_ and he and General Bel Iblis and the fleet’s other strategists would get together with their intelligence operatives and decide how best to move on Ukio. With the Imperial frontier base on Hishyim in Republic hands, Bel Iblis now had the perfect staging point for an attack on the agri-world. And he’d have more restful sleep.

Wedge reviewed the briefing documents a second time and frowned. Rogriss had picked up six of Thrawn’s best Star Destroyers, adding his own _Agonizer_ to the mix. That gave Ukio a strong defensive presence that would cost Fleet heavily if they went in directly. Those ships and their crews, especially Thrawn’s former flagship _Chimaera_ , had proved their mettle time and again. And they were probably the least difficult problem the New Republic had to face; Thrawn had managed to capture Ukio with its planetary defenses intact, including its extremely formidable planetary shield. It wasn’t enough to just recapture Ukio, Wedge knew, they needed to take the world with a minimum of collateral damage.

_Will the Imperials burn the world to keep its farms out of New Republic hands? Can we knock them off balance and guarantee a peaceful withdrawal, come at them sideways somehow?_

Wedge rubbed his lip. Thorny strategic problems grated, but he’d had enough years of command to know when to muddle through and when to come back to a problem later with a fresh mind. He put the briefing notes down and paged his desk holo-display over through happy landings and parties to something more recent. It was a moment captured candidly by Mirax, of him dancing with Iella after they’d taken down Isard for the last time. The image coruscated as they whirled, painting her golden hair and deep brown eyes in shades of blue, a satisfied smile on her face contrasting with the barely-restrained idiot’s grin on his, phasing into fuzz as the sequence repeated itself ad infinitum. 

Iella had been incommunicado for two weeks. When they started seeing each other a few months ago, they both knew contact would be spotty at times. After all, he was the squadron commander of the New Republic’s premiere starfighter squadron, and she one of Airen Cracken’s proteges. Still, the uncertainty gnawed at him as he ruefully observed that his concern for her was no less than he’d inflicted on his own friends over the years. Certainly, whatever it was Iella was up to, it wasn’t as dangerous as flying against a Death Star!

His comm chimed, and Wedge flicked it on, welcoming the distraction. “Antilles.”

“General,” said the voice of the _Ession Strike’s_ Bothan communications officer. “There’s a HoloNet message for you, but we’re unable to trace it back to its source.” The Bothan’s voice was dark with suspicion. “It’s NRI sealed and encrypted for your retinal scan only, sir.”

Wedge stood. “I’ll be right there.” He made the trip to the ship’s secure communications station in record time, sealing the door behind him. Then he offered the computer his retina and waited. 

A more complex holocomm would have permitted the caller to appear as a full hologram, but _Ession Strike’s_ holocomm was rudimentary and projected a two-dimensional face on a screen. Wedge’s heart sank as the image resolved as he schooled his expression into something more professional. The face who appeared was indeed from Intelligence, but it wasn’t the face Wedge had been hoping for.

“General Antilles,” said General Airen Cracken, head of New Republic Intelligence, Iella’s boss, and somewhat mercurial ally over the years. “I understand you’re aboard _Ession Strike_.”

Wedge’s fear subsided a bit when Cracken’s expression registered. For a heartbeat Wedge had thought that Cracken was calling to tell him that Iella had been captured or lost or was missing, but the General was not wearing the iron-faced sympathy that such a call demanded. But if Cracken wasn’t calling about Iella, then he was calling about something _else._ Wedge’s heart sank all over again.

“We’re patrolling Hishyim.” Wedge’s voice was flat. “What is it you want, General?”

Cracken took a breath. “An NRI facility in Albrion sector has just gone dark. We received what might have been the beginning of a distress call, but the message was cut off almost instantly. All subsequent attempts to communicate with the facility have failed. I want you to go check it out.”

Wedge stiffened. “General, I’m attached to General Bel Iblis’s task force as part of the—”

“Yes, I know that. But this is of vital importance. The facility serves as a prison for dangerous people, people with skills that are useful to NRI but who cannot be allowed to operate freely. You are close enough to get there in a matter of hours; anyone else I might send would take days.” Cracken offered a weak nod. “I will contact General Bel Iblis and make him aware of your redeployment. I’ve sent the necessary information for the hyperspace calculations to _Ession Strike,_ as well as the procedures required for keeping the planet’s location strictly confidential.”

Wedge crossed his arms, his expression hardening. “You want me to take my people into a potential combat situation without knowing _anything_ about that situation? Allied strength, enemy strength, system geography, planetary geography? I know better than most how dangerous it is to accept a mission without proper reconnaissance. We just kicked the crap out of two Star Destroyers because we knew things they didn’t think we knew.”

Cracken watched him, the image of his face blurring with static from the poor holocomm connection. “All right,” he relented. “I’ll forward you everything I have, but you tell your people that this information is classified and that classification is to be _respected,_ understood? Tell Horn twice.”

“We still won’t know what attacked the facility,” Wedge pointed out. “We might end up coming out of hyperspace in the teeth of an Imperial task force.”

“I’m not expecting you to take any unnecessary risks. Get in, find out what’s going on, do what you can, and get out. Clear?” Cracken took a breath. “We _need_ this facility. I know I’m asking a lot, but you always deliver. If you do this for me, Wedge, I’ll owe you one.”

Wedge’s eyebrows rose, a bit of the gunrunner he used to be coming to the fore. “You’ll owe me one?”

“That’s right,” Cracken confirmed. “One favor.”

Wedge didn’t like it. He didn’t like it at all. But he knew Cracken. “Tell me one thing,” he said. “If Pash were still flying with the Rogues, would you still be sending us?”

Cracken’s green eyes flashed with anger. “You know better than to ask me that, Wedge,” he growled.

Airen Cracken had never been shy about sending his son Pash into danger. Wedge and Pash had been partners during the New Republic operations to capture Coruscant. They’d flown together against a Super Star Destroyer. Wedge had once sent Pash into a raging thunderstorm flying an antique Z-95. It wasn’t a fair question to ask the General, but it was the only way Wedge had to be sure that Airen wasn’t sending him and his pilots and the crew of _Ession Strike_ into a death trap. The righteous indignation in Cracken’s eyes bore no sign of a guilty conscience. That was good.

“One favor,” Wedge confirmed. “To be reclaimed at a time and place of my choosing. We’re en route as of now.” He cut the holocomm connection before Cracken could add any new requests, took a last fond look at Iella’s image, and turned to recover his flight suit before preparing to kick tired, shocky pilots and crew into gear. 

* * *

The hyperspace voyage was brief, and Wedge made sure his pilots got some stims from medical before they all strapped back into their snubfighters. _Ession Strike’s_ caf wasn’t the best in the fleet, but it wasn’t anywhere near as bad as what they’d had to work with on Hoth. “I don’t like this,” Atril’s voice said in Wedge’s ear over the command-level comm channel. “I pulled all the ready munitions we have from our torpedo lockers to re-equip your fighters, but the close quarters is making it difficult to rearm on short notice. Did General Cracken say anything else?”

Wedge checked his X-wing’s systems. Shields, weapons, engines all in the green, but Wedge only had four proton torpedoes. It would have to do. “Gate, do another full system check on us, then pull systems reports from the squadron’s other astromechs. Highlight any issues that might hinder combat performance.” His astromech whistled an acknowledgement, then Wedge keyed in his own com. “The General and I had only a short conversation. You’ve looked at the intel he sent us, what kind of force would be required to take out the base defenses?”

There was silence on the other end of the comm as Atril considered the question. Gate whistled, a sound that Wedge knew from experience meant task complete, and the summary of information on the other Rogues appeared on Wedge’s HUD. He flicked through it. “Rogue Four, report the specifics of your weapons malfunction,” he ordered over the squadron frequency.

“If something can go wrong, something does go wrong,” Hobbie’s voice came back typically dour. “My number three laser cannon is operating at fifty percent after our last engagement. I think it’s an issue with the flashback suppressor, but my astromech thinks it’s a problem with the tibanna gas injector.” There was a confirming warble from Hobbie’s astromech. “If I’m right it would be worse.”

“If it’s the flashback suppressor, the cannon might blow up when you try to fire it,” Wedge pointed out.

“I know. I’m having the techs disable it. I’ll run with three cannons instead of four.” Hobbie sighed. “It’s certainly not the first time I’ve had to make do with a less-than-optimal loadout.” The was a muttering about proton torpedoes, and then Hobbie cut the com.

“I wish we knew more about where we were headed,” Corran’s voice came over the squadron comm, echoing Atril’s earlier question. “I don’t like flying blind into NRI messes.”

“I don’t like flying blind into anything,” added Rogue Twelve, her voice equally aggrieved.

Atril’s voice cut into the conversation over her private link to Wedge. “So, the prison defense schematic that Cracken sent suggests it is both formidably defended and vulnerable.” Her voice was calm and distant, focused on the information in front of her. “It relies heavily on droids to man both the starfighter defenses—it looks like they’ve got old Clone Wars vintage droid fighters deployed here, which can be unreliable—and the planetary guns. They probably could all be disabled with a bombardment, but that depends on how powerful the prison’s shields are, and this isn’t detailed enough to give me a firm spec on those. But a bombardment only makes sense if you’re there to kill the prisoners; it would be hard to knock out the generator without also flattening the rest of the facility.”

“So, any attack would benefit from precision rather than brute force?” Wedge asked. In the background, the Rogues were still chattering about their opinions on the mission; he tuned them out for the moment.

“That’s how I would do it,” Atril responded. “We could probably do it with _Strike_ and the Rogues, but you really want a ground element to knock out the shield generators from the inside. I think you can get a shuttle in under the shield umbrella with some deft flying.”

“Makes sense,” Wedge replied. “Well, let’s come out of hyperspace far enough out to take a look, then we can move in slowly once we know what we’re dealing with.”

“Confirmed,” Atril replied confidently. “Five minutes until I bring us out of hyperspace. Are you going to launch as soon as we arrive?”

“No. We’re better off hidden in the corvette until we know what we’re doing. Best to keep at least one surprise in reserve.” He flicked his comm back to the squadron channel. “Quiet,” he ordered, and the debate subsided. “We’ll be arriving in five minutes. We’re coming out of hyperspace far enough out that we should see any threats before they hit us, then we can move in to deal with whatever it is we find. If we’re badly outgunned we’ll hop back out and tell Cracken we’re sorry but Rogue Squadron is no longer in the business of suicide missions.”

There was an echo of acknowledgements from his pilots. Wedge watched the timer count down slowly, feeling the familiar tension that always arrived before a battle. He just wished he knew what they were about to face.

“Thirty seconds to realspace,” _Ession Strike’s_ communications officer said over the squadron comm.

“Here we go,” Rogue Five’s voice murmured, then abruptly brightened. “Hey Boss, think it’ll be a platoon of rampaging pirate Ewoks?”

Wedge laughed, shaking his head. “Gate, remind me to give Wes kitchen duty when we get back to _Orthavan_.” But he could feel the tension lift, and not for the first time was glad that years of war had burnished away Janson’s sense of humor to something only mildly insufferable most of the time.

* * *

_Ession Strike_ came out of hyperspace well outside of the planetary gravity well, and on schedule—which meant at the very least no Interdictor cruiser lying in wait. That first concern relieved, Captain Tabanne turned towards the display as it started to update. The planet didn’t have a name in the data provided by Cracken, but it was a mountainous rock, dry and cold and generally unpleasant. Three rocky moons circled it, and the ruined debris of a fourth moon scattered around them all, kicking up more rocks as it impacted the moons.

“[What a mess],” her sensor officer muttered.

“Yeah,” Atril murmured. Any second now the ship’s sensors would update the display again…

Her heart fell. There it was. She keyed in the comm and started to speak, but paused as the display updated yet again… maybe it wasn’t quite as bad as it had first seemed. “General Antilles, we’ve got scanners on the base. One _Imperial-II_ and what looks like two or three squadrons of TIEs. CIC isn’t sure but best guess is a mix of Interceptors and Defenders. They’re engaged with the automated base defenses.”

Wedge’s voice came back tense. “How are the defenses doing?”

“They’re losing, but the Imperials aren’t completely unscathed.” She tapped, zooming. “The Star Destroyer is named _Invidious_.”

“Never heard of it,” Wedge replied. “It’s not part of Rogriss’ fleet, and as far as I know there are no other Imperial capital ships in Albrion sector. A warlord maybe?”

“Could be. The Destroyer is showing signs of battle damage,” Atril said. “In fact, its starboard shields look a little wobbly.” One of the red dots signifying a TIE vanished from the display. “And the droid fighters just got another kill.” She watched the display, considering the options. “What do we do, General?”

* * *

Wedge was trying to answer that question himself. He _was_ the General, and this was his operation. That made their next move his call. Damn Cracken anyway, who was so important that NRI had needed a secret prison on this rock just to hold them?

“Boss, Four,” Hobbie’s voice was as excited as Wedge could remember hearing it. “I have an idea.”

  
  


* * *

Fliry Vorru, formerly Moff of Corellia, found being on the bridge of a Star Destroyer again to be a disorienting experience. Wearing the uniform of an Imperial Moff—equal in rank to the uniform worn by ‘Admiral’ Tavira—was familiar, but odd, like he’d stepped into the past. But he could afford to show no weakness—not to Tavira, and not to her crew. These men and women (and aliens) were not the loyal servants of the Empire of old; they were wolves, their teeth hidden behind Imperial uniforms worn just short of regulation crispness. They would, he knew, happily devour him and suck the marrow from his bones if they thought it the right time… and they would just as happily let him fatten up, regain some of the wealth and power he had lost, and _then_ devour him, like a Suloni variform cattle farmer.

It was important to have teeth of his own, complete with fangs to flash at anyone who got too eager for the meal.

“We’ve lost five more TIEs, Admiral,” said one of the officers standing on the _Invidious_ ’ command walkway. “Blade, Saber, and Pike Squadrons report the enemy droid fighters are competent combatants, and they outnumber our TIEs.” He scowled at his display. “All the metallic content in orbit is making sensors extremely unreliable.”

Tavira’s hands were folded behind her back as she watched the display. The number of starfighters engaged with _Invidious_ ’ squadrons of uglies. Tavira insisted on calling them TIE Advanced, Vorru had learned, but they were not from the Sienar line of snubfighters. Essentially an attempt to cobble together a more powerful snubfighter in the mode of the TIE Defender out of TIE Interceptor parts, the “clutch” starfighter was an impressive craft, if somewhat finicky. “The pilots can consider this exercise an opportunity for advancement,” Tavira said, watching the engagement out of her forward bridge window. “Those who survive will receive promotions. Those who do not will be replaced. Captain Nive has plenty of candidates for promotion to our starfighter squadrons garrisoning Kessel.”

From below, the prison’s planetary guns were still firing. The first time they had spat blue fire from the surface up at _Invidious_ Vorru had winced with concern, but the guns did not possess anywhere near the firepower of the best modern Kuati ground cannons. The only real danger was the persistent flutter in the ship’s starboard shields, which was why the ship’s port side was angled towards the planet. Down in the starboard crew pit, Vorru could see officers clustered around a station monitoring the faulty shield generator, trying to maintain its power at close to full efficiency.

“Is there any sign of Republic reinforcements?” he asked Tavira. She was one of the few Imperial officers he had ever surpassed in height; her petite frame was compact even compared to his own small stature. The man standing beside her, the white-masked Tevas-kaar who had so ably cowed Doole and Skynxnex on Kessel, was quite another matter, beating both of them in the height department by at least half a meter.

“Is there any sign of Republic reinforcements?” she echoed, looking at her sensor officer.

The man shook his head. “Not yet, Admiral. I believe we managed to prevent any distress signals from escaping with our jamming.”

Tavira offered Vorru an alarmingly charming smile, one that under other circumstances would have absolutely demanded a smile from him in return. He reminded himself that this woman was chief among the wolves and resisted the impulse. “See, Moff Vorru, as I said, my crew is most competent. We have nullified their call for help, we are about to finish off their starfighter defenses, and once that is done we will land our ground forces and seize the prison.”

The three clutch squadrons were indeed about finished with the four squadrons of antique droid starfighters. Droid starfighters had certain advantages, namely not requiring training before they could be put into the field and the small cost of a droid versus a sentient brain, but those same advantages also made them inherently inferior to piloted starfighters. The age of the droid starfighters Cracken had acquired to protect his black site prison—probably the only thing he could acquire without risking the site’s secrecy—just compounded their weakness. The thirty-odd clutch starfighters had sustained numerous casualties, but they had inflicted substantially more damage than they had sustained.

“Time to send down the shuttle,” Tavira said breezily. She walked to the back of the bridge and opened a wall closet, removing a blaster-resistant vest and sliding it on over her uniform. “Inform the landing force that I will be accompanying them personally,” she announced. “Commander Navarian, you have the bridge. Do keep it intact for me.”

The youngish man at the Communications station stiffened in surprise. “Y-yes ma’am!”

Vorru leaned towards her as she pulled the blaster vest into place, her pair of heavy blaster pistols hanging conveniently at her sides. “Do you think it’s wise to go yourself?” he asked her, quiet enough not to be overheard. He knew better than to be overheard questioning her on her own bridge.

She offered him a wolfish grin. “You and I both know that to earn the loyalty of the men under your command, you must be willing to share the risks they take,” she replied. “That goes double for men like these,” she inclined her head towards the semi-piratical men and women crewing her bridge, and the clutch snubfighters and their pilots beyond the bridge window. “Don’t worry,” she said, her voice faux-reassuring. “I’m sure they’ll take pity on you, even without me and the Tevas-kaar here to protect you.”

Vorru’s expression hardened. “I am not as defenseless as you think,” he cautioned her. “I did not rise to the heights I did without being able to get my hands dirty.”

“That’s cute, old man,” she replied dismissively. “Tevas-kaar, with me.” With that she turned her back on him, leaving him gritting his teeth in annoyance at her disrespect—and at the fact that she was likely correct. The last few years on Kessel had carved away at the last reserves of his strength and patience, and his advancing age meant he might never hone his edge to what it once was.

Well. People had told him that before. He’d just have to prove them wrong, yet again. Vorru strode into the center of the bridge, his back ramrod straight, and stood next to the newly-named acting-captain Navarian.

“When the Admiral is prepared, drop our ground forces at the edge of the prison’s perimeter shields,” the man was ordering. “Prepare an ion bombardment of the shields to scramble their targeting sensors while the drop ship makes its approach. Tell the clutch pilots that the moment the facility’s shields are down, they are to provide any necessary air support to the Admiral.”

There was a hum of commotion in the starboard crew pit as the ship’s starboard shields once again fluttered, then stabilized. Navarian scowled, then shook his head. “When this is over, we’ll need maintenance on the starboard shield generators, but for now it shouldn’t matter. The base’s fighters have been neutralized and we can protect our starboard shields from incoming fire.”

“Perhaps,” Vorru agreed. “But it is my experience that all vulnerabilities should be addressed as quickly as possible. You never know what threats may lurk in unexpected places.”

Navarian scowled at him, then turned his back and stood in the center of the bridge, looking resplendent and actually being useless. Vorru watched his back, then climbed down the ladder into the starboard crew pit. “I know a little something about Star Destroyers,” he said to the surprised crewers, who parted for the Moff’s uniform unexpectedly in their midst. “Let’s see if I can help.”

* * *

The _Sentinel-_ class landing craft loaded with Tavira’s elite _Invidious_ ground forces, wielding an eclectic mix of preferred weapons and armor. Despite their ragtag appearance the Tevas-kaar knew the men and women in this squad were more dangerous than their haphazard appearance would suggest. In the Imperial Army, the expectation would have been uniform equipment and training, but _Invidious_ no longer carried the Imperial Army. Only a handful of them carried the standard stormtrooper E-11 blaster, and those they did carry featured extensive customization.

The Tevas-kaar didn’t carry a blaster at all. _“Blasters have their place,”_ his master had told him once. _“But if you depend on a blaster, you will see every fight from the perspective of a man armed with a blaster. At a far remove. The consequence of violence is never a thing you should separate yourself from, lest you forget the impact of a violent act.”_

His lips, covered by the d’oemir bear mask he wore, tightened at the memory. Thinking of his master only ever brought him pain, and he tried to put the memory out of his mind before the other, heavier recollections coursed through him, uncontrolled. He could see them coming; the pain of the heavy footsteps, the heavy breathing, the flash of red, the fear and pain and the horrifying hum of the lightsaber that would end his tutelage. He took a shuddering breath, acutely aware of Tavira beside him, her violet eyes focused on the prison steadily growing beneath them as the shuttle descended.

Blue-white laser fire pounded upwards, slamming uselessly into the _Invidious’_ shields. The Star Destroyer fired back, its own darker blue ion blasts skittering over the prison’s shields like a spiderweb, scattering the prison’s sensors and allowing the shuttle to descend through the rain of fire without sustaining more than an occasional glancing blast. The prison was built into the craggy side of a mountain, with landing pads that stretched out into a ravine, and held aloft by buttresses and repulsorlifts. There were a half-dozen of them, each large enough to host a lander the size of their _Sentinel,_ but none were occupied now. Support equipment for the droid fighters that _Invidious’_ three squadrons of clutch snubfighters had destroyed revealed what the primary purpose of the platforms had been prior to their arrival.

The air was thick with the acrid stench of heavy turbolaser fire, contrasting with the chill from the elevation. The ravines below the landing pads were hundreds of meters deep, and the prison itself had been built into the side of a mountain. The shuttle circled, descending down into one of those ravines.

“This is going to be tricky!” yelled the shuttle’s pilot to Tavira over the pounding thunder of the weapons and the ship’s roaring engines.

Tavira pulled out both of her heavy blaster pistols and offered the pilot a broad grin, her white teeth shining. “Do it right the first time, then!” she yelled back. The shuttle dropped into the ravine, under the hemispheric dome of the prison’s deflector shields, then tilted its nose up and strained upwards. The inertia drove all of them back, and the Tevas-kaar gripped both the side of the landing craft and Tavira’s waist to keep them from sliding with the rest of the ground forces towards the rear of the shuttle. The pilot stared at his controls and the rockface as it flowed past, the shuttle shooting through the gap between the rockface and the shields. Tavira pumped her fist triumphantly as the shuttle popped above one of the landing pads. “Go!” she screamed as the shuttle leveled out, its landing ramp dipping, and three dozen troops charged down the ramp, blasters firing.

Light blaster fire flashed towards the shuttle, deflecting off its heavy shields. Battle droids of the same vintage as the droid starfighters ambled out, blaster rifles held in mechanical hands, firing at the pirates storming the base. One of Tavira’s people quickly assembled a tripod for a pre-charged E-Web heavy repeating blaster borrowed from the shuttle’s stores and started pounding away, sending huge bolts of green laser fire into the crowd of droids.

Tavira herself walked down the ramp with negligent disregard for her own safety. With a single blaster pistol in each hand she started firing as she approached, trusting the Tevas-kaar to protect her from incoming fire. He used the Force to catch a blaster bolt that had been destined for her chest and dissipated it in his hand, then pulled her down next to the E-Web nest. The heavy repeater continued to roar, the weapon glowing dangerously red as its fire tore through battle droids.

The Tevas-kaar tried to keep Tavira from rising again but she was not so easily deterred. Waving him away with a quick jerk of her head, the pirate warlord stood up and commenced firing, muzzles of her heavy blaster pistols flipping up in each hand and dropping down to their targets as she discharged them in an alternating sequence. One of her shots took a battle droid in the middle of its awkwardly-shaped head, sending the droid smoking to the surface of the landing pad. Tavira took her time, lining up shot after shot, cool as if she was refining her technique on the practice range. Her accuracy was exemplary; her combat style would be suicidal if not for the Tevas-kaar’s finely-honed danger sense.

The acrid stench of burning ozone would linger in his mask for days, he thought sourly, again remembering his master’s disdain for blasters. 

There was a tingling at the back of his neck, his danger sense kicking in, anticipation and demand swirling. His lightsaber flowed into his hand and his thumb double-tapped the weapon’s activation stud. The _snap-hiss_ of the blade could be easily heard even over the pounding laser battle, and he swept the blue blade through the air, bouncing a single blaster bolt away from Tavira’s head. She didn’t duck back, and didn’t stop firing as he swept the blade back, deflecting a second bolt away from her shoulder. Both bolts sped away harmlessly, and Tavira laughed with a maniacal lilt as her own blaster fire slammed into droid after droid.

Tavira finally dropped back down, finding new power packs for her depleted blasters, and offered the Tevas-kaar a ferocious grin as she slapped them into place.

But the danger sense tickling his neck hadn’t subsided, and her grin faded from his awareness as he stretched out into the Force. Frowning, he let the Force guide his eyes and turned, peering through the mask up at the dagger-shape of the Invidious above them. He flinched as the Star Destroyer’s ion fire smeared above them, the hemispheric planetary shields covered in a bright blue web of deflected light, radiating painfully and mildly scorching his vision.

Tavira’s comlink buzzed, and she flicked it on. “What is it!” she yelled over the ongoing firefight, her soprano voice cutting through the din. She waved at the man at the E-Web and its pounding fire subsided, the weapon’s red glow from the burgeoning overheat subsiding for a moment.

The ship’s response was static-filled, the signal only reaching them by reflecting off the canyon under the shielding dome. “-miral . . . vette approa . . . ron of X-wi . . . ordered the TIEs . . . gage . . .”

Tavira twisted around to stare upwards with the Tevas-kaar as the ion cannon fire subsided. They could see the _Invidious_ clearly now—and see the green turbolaser fire that it had begun to send out into space from its vulnerable starboard flank. Using sensory-enhancement techniques his master had taught him, the Tevas-kaar focused his gaze—but it wasn’t necessary, as even Tavira could see the flashes of laser fire as the snubfighters surrounding the _Invidious_ engaged one another, punctured by explosions.

And then the sky was rocked as a bright explosion tore through _Invidious’_ starboard flank, and Tavira cursed ferociously. “ _Invidious!_ Blast it, Navarian, what in blazes!” She turned and pointed at the Tevas-kaar. “You! Into the facility, now! Take a team, find our target, and get out!” She dropped back down into a more protected location as he hesitated—he really shouldn’t leave her alone and vulnerable like this—but her glare let him know she wasn’t in the mood for argument. “You’re sworn to me, now do as I order!”

His lightsaber ignited, he ran towards the prison, deflecting away blaster fire and carving through battle droids with ease. In the sky above the sounds of battle continued.

  
  



	7. Chapter Six

“This is exciting,” Corran Horn said to himself as his X-wing hummed underneath him, roaring towards the out-of-sight, stationary form of the Star Destroyer _Invidious_. In front of him he could see the quad engines of Myn Donos’ X-wing, and behind him the nose and laser cannons of Ooryl’s. The ten fighters of Rogue squadron stormed ahead in a straight line, using the craggy, rocky, unnamed planet’s largest craggy, rocky, unnamed moon as cover to keep the Star Destroyer from seeing them. The X-wings swerved, following Wedge’s lead as he darted behind the moon and some of the other, larger asteroids to make a hopefully unnoticed approach.

The comms were silent, with none of the usual chatter. Transmissions might be picked up by the Star Destroyer, so once the plans were made, they were carried out without further discussion. His astromech, Whistler, moaned nervously. “I know buddy,” Corran soothed him. “I’m not used to flying like this either.”

Myn’s X-wing swooped to the left, following Nrin’s, and for a moment Corran could see the line of snubfighters, stretched out single-file. For once, Corran thought, the formation flying that they occasionally practiced actually was coming in handy.

The _Ession Strike_ was a swift vessel, but nowhere near as swift as an X-wing, and its larger profile meant it had to be more careful than the X-wings to avoid being spotted as it made its own approach, so the X-wings had left the corvette well behind them. Corran just hoped Hobbie was right about the planet’s metallic-heavy orbital profile covering their approach, because this was going to get very messy very fast if he wasn’t.

The moon was looming large in front of them now and Wedge daringly swept down towards the surface, leading the rest of the squadron to follow him. Whistler warbled nervously as they skimmed over the rock’s nearly atmosphereless surface, the faintest whistle of air passing above the cockpit. “Almost there, Whistler,” Corran reassured him. There was a large cliff looming before them now, and the line of X-wings swept up to skim above it—

And there it was, the Star Destroyer _Invidious,_ its vulnerable starboard flank presented to them at a range of less than seven kilometers. There was a click on the comm and Corran shifted power back to his X-wings shields and weapons, letting them start to recharge as he coasted forward towards the Star Destroyer. The neat line formation dissolved as the Rogues each sought a clear view of their target.

The comm clicked again, twice, and Corran switched his firing control over to proton torpedoes. He didn’t bother aiming – his targeting systems were already slaved to Wedge’s X-wing, and he watched as his HUD flickered yellow then a steady red and he pulled the trigger. Two proton torpedoes lanced out from his X-wing, and he saw them joined by eighteen others. He waited ten seconds, his HUD still humming the solid tone of a strong lock, then pulled the trigger again. If he’d had more torpedoes he would have happily used them, but the Rogues hadn’t been able to fully re-arm after the engagement with _Chimaera_ and _Agonizer._

Still, forty torpedoes ought to be enough to hurt it, especially with that wobble in its starboard shields. _Time to ruin your whole day,_ Corran thought eagerly at the Star Destroyer.

* * *

“Commander Navarian,” a man donning Lieutenant’s insignia called from the scanning station. “We’re being hit with a torpedo lock.”

“A torpedo lock?” Navarian’s voice replied, and Vorru looked up as the ship's de-facto Captain strode over to look for himself. “Has the surface been holding some of their weapons back?” He stepped to his left, peering down over the portside crew pit. “Find the prison’s torpedo launchers and destroy them at once!” he ordered.

Vorru, working with a pair of former Imperial crewers who hadn’t had the patience for Imperial discipline, turned his attention fully away from the ship’s finicky starboard shield generators and upon the discussion above. They hadn’t fixed the shields – only time in a yard could do that, they needed at least three system component replacements – but they were more stable than they’d been at least.

“No sir,” the scanning offer said. “It’s not coming from the surface. I think it’s coming from the largest moon.”

“Did the New Republic put weapons on the moon?” Navarian asked, looking confused. “I suppose there’s no reason they couldn’t, but it would make maintenance much more difficult…”

The scanning officer went pale. “Incoming!” he cried. “Twenty… no _forty_ proton torpedoes! There are X-wings out there!”

Navarian froze, staring at him in disbelief, then turned to peer out the starboard bridge windows. Forty pale blue lights, glowing in the void, streamed towards his Star Destroyer. He opened his mouth to respond, but shock had frozen him to the floor plating. His command was purely perfunctory, a formality, the combat was over, the threat from the base had been eliminated, they had prevented any distress signals from getting out!

Vorru could see the shock, the horror, the disbelief wash over the man’s face as Navarian scrambled to com Tavira, and then the first twenty torpedoes hit. The starboard shields, reinforced and stabilized, were up to the challenge… mostly. They flickered again, enormous holes opening up in the protective coverage, and some of the torpedos snuck through. The ship rocked lightly as bright explosions tore at the ship’s outer layer of armor, blasting away turbolaser batteries and tractor beams. 

Far worse, one of the shield generators took a direct hit.

When the second salvo struck, there was no shield to stop them.

* * *

“Wooohooo!” howled Janson over the comm as the starboard side of _Invidious_ lit up. Small explosions became large ones, armor boiled away, and the ship jolted from the blow. Still, it was a Star Destroyer, and while the blow had been a heavy one, the ship remained in fighting shape.

“Rogues,” came Wedge’s voice, “Heads up, we have what’s left of the Star Destroyer’s fighter complement altering vector to meet us. Seven, Eight, Nine, Ten, take the fighters coming up from the prison. Everyone else, we’re going to chip some more paint off this Star Destroyer.”

“Nine copies,” Corran confirmed, pointing his X-wing down at the planet. There were still blasts of blue energy firing up from the surface at the Star Destroyer, but as he watched they died—and so too did the prison’s shields. “Leader, Nine. The Imps have knocked out the facility’s weapons and shields. Might be about ready to make their escape.”

“Confirmed, Nine,” Wedge’s voice came back. “Take the fighters, then do what you can to prevent the prison break. I don’t know who Cracken put in here, but I would bet good money that we don’t want to have to find out.”

“On it, Rogue Leader.” Corran’s X-wing entered the planet’s atmosphere and he throttled back as friction made itself known. Whistler warbled at him, and his HUD switched to one of the incoming fighters. “What are those?” he asked the astromech, but Whistler just warbled back uncertainly.

“Has anyone seen fighters like these before?” Myn Donos’ voice asked the question for him.

“Not sure, Seven,” Corran replied. “Some new Imperial snubfighter design maybe.” But they didn’t have time to think about it. The four Rogues were met by seven examples of the odd TIE design, which possessed a characteristic TIE Fighter ball cockpit and engines, but married it to three sets of triangular panels. Like most TIE designs they weren’t designed for atmosphere and were clearly having trouble, but Corran’s first blasts were unexpectedly absorbed. “Nine to Squadron,” he said into his comm. “Enemy snubfighters are equipped with shields.” He throttled back and pulled the stick towards him, rising after the enemy who had escaped.

“Five here, and they also have ion cannons,” said Wes, sounding harried. “They’re maneuverable too, maybe slightly better than squints.”

Corran’s HUD flicked green and he pulled the trigger, sending four red blasts of laser fire converging on his target. One of the four missed entirely; the other three drilled through the cockpit and one of the panels. The ship tumbled, going into an uncontrolled spin. It spiraled away from the battle, heading out towards the planet’s second moon. “Well, they still die when you shoot them,” he said to Whistler, and the droid twittered triumphantly as Corran started looking for a new target.

* * *

Vorru climbed out of the starboard crew pit, stumbling as he did as another proton torpedo erupted against the ship’s hull. There were X-wings out there and their pilots were good, exceptional even. _Invidious’_ three squadrons of clutch starfighters were capable, but their pilots were tired and low on fuel from their engagement with the base’s droid fighters, their numbers were diminished, and they’d thought the hard work was already done; the unexpected blow of the X-wings’ arrival had to be demoralizing.

Worst of all, their commander was frozen in stupefied shock. Navarian might be an effective enough comms officer, but he evidently did not have the needed chops to command a ship in combat. He occasionally stammered orders, but they were never helpful.

Vorru stepped into the center of the bridge. They needed a leader, and he could be that. “Helm, bring us down towards the surface, and pitch the main hangar bay to permit Admiral Tavira the easiest and shortest landing path. Guns, I want you to prepare to cover the Admiral’s return.” He turned towards Navarian. “Tell the fighters their _only_ assignment is to prevent the X-wings from engaging the Admiral’s shuttle,” he ordered the commander.

Navarian stared at him, his eyes wide, then he offered a choppy nod and reached for his communications headset.

The ship rocked as another torpedo struck _Invidious,_ and Vorru grimaced. But no—the X-wings had to be almost out of torpedoes, if they weren’t already; if they’d had many more, _Invidious_ would have been hit with them in the alpha strike. His Star Destroyer was still combat capable. All they had to do was get the shuttle, the Admiral, and their objective back aboard and they could head for the hyper limit, and there would be little the X-wings could do to stop them.

He just needed to make sure the crew didn’t panic. Vorru folded his arms behind his back, straightening his spine, and stood in the center of the bridge platform. His orders were given; it was appearances that mattered now.

* * *

Corran and Ooryl’s X-wings screamed over the landing platform occupied by the _Invidious’_ landing craft, strafing it with their laser cannons. Vaporized permacrete (and pirates) scattered everywhere. A repeater E-Web returned fire, but his X-wing’s shields were designed to stand up to turbolaser blasts and shrugged it off without issue. “Nine, the remaining TIEs are headed in your direction,” Tycho’s voice said into his ear. “The squadron is all out of torps and _Invidious_ knows it, so it’s basically ignoring us. Lead and Four are strafing _Invidious_ to get them to reconsider that perspective; _Strike_ is inbound with bigger guns. Five, Six, and Twelve are coming to join you. What’s the status of the prison?”

Corran checked his HUD, didn’t see any TIEs in his immediate vicinity, and tilted his X-wing over to take a look down. The craggy rock of the mountainside flowed beneath his fighter as he slowly circled the prison that was settled into that mountainside. “There’s a _Sentinel_ landing craft down there with shields strong enough to stand up to anything short of sustained cannon fire,” Corran reported. “We’ve taken out a chunk of the landing forces; I’m not sure how many more there are down there, but it’s at least a dozen less than it was.”

Tycho was silent for a few long moments; Corran assumed that the veteran pilot was dodging turbolaser fire, or maybe removing the threat of it. Tycho’s voice crackled back to life. “Confirmed, Nine. Options?”

“I’m not sure we have any good ones. Anything more we do up here might kill whatever prisoners the Imps are here to rescue, not to mention whatever others they’re not here to rescue. Are our orders to kill in order to prevent escape?”

“Our orders didn’t specify.” Tycho’s voice was annoyed. “You have Nrin, Ooryl, and Myn with you, that’s a formidable ground contingent. Might be time to go commando.”

Corran grimaced. The possibility had occurred to him, but he didn’t like it. He was a lot safer in his cockpit than he would be on the ground. On the other hand, his CorSec sensibilities didn’t like killing prisoners, either. “We’ll need air support to keep the remaining TIEs off of us,” he cautioned.

“You’ll have it,” Tycho promised. “Gotta go!” Tycho’s voice clicked off. Corran glanced upwards, watching as three X-wings—Wedge, Tycho, and Hobbie—flitted nimbly over the _Invidious’_ hull, blasting turbolaser batteries and tractor beams, dodging the steady stream of green fire that lanced out at them.

Corran pointed the nose of his fighter back at the prison. “One more pass, Whistler, then we’ll land on the second pad,” he ordered, wishing he’d let Luke Skywalker talk him into more Force training while the Rogues had been on Coruscant.

* * *

The Tevas-kaar carved his way through the antiquated battle droids with ruthless efficiency. In the confined corridors of the prison and with only the smoking wreckage of ruined droids behind him the blaster bolts could only come from the front, which made deflecting them all too easy. His white-blue blade hissed as beads of sweat trickled down his masked face. 

His lightsaber came down with a quick hissing slash, leaving the last of the battle droids in a split heap on the floor. His bronzed armor was darkened from a few near misses, but his long ago learned lightsaber skills had not failed him. _“Again,” his master instructed him as the training remote buzzed behind the man’s white-haired head. The drone spat bolts in bursts of two or three, forcing him to respond quickly and precisely. His body had grown lanky and uncoordinated and he grunted again and again with frustration as he was struck with stinging blasts. “Conserve your movements,” his master instructed firmly. “The lightsaber is about grace, not power, and grace is found in your wrists, not your arms.”_ The battle droids were a testament to that lesson, at least. 

The map showed only a handful of prisoners in this place and he’d yet to meet a single human opponent. Was it manned entirely by droids? His long strides carried him at a quick pace through the darkened halls and he reached his destination in a matter of minutes; the facility was not really all that large. His large, armored hand hit the release on the door, but it buzzed red in response. “Access denied,” the computer said. 

Well. All right. 

The Tevas-kaar reached out with the Force, making sure that the person he was there to rescue was not on the other side of the door. Then, once he was sure that an errant stroke with the lightsaber would not kill his quarry, he stabbed the blue-white lightsaber blade forward, driving it into the hinges of the door. The heavy metal resisted but had never been made to stand up to a lightsaber, and he grunted as he dragged the lightsaber slowly along the doorframe. The metal went red and liquid as he forced the blade down. _You were wrong, master,_ he thought to himself as he grimaced from the effort, _there are times the lightsaber_ is _about power._

The door sagged, and he quickly plunged the blade through the door’s locking mechanism. Then with a Force-enhanced _push_ he sent the heavy door slamming to the ground with a bone-rattling crash. 

“Come in,” a gravelly, aged male voice called from inside the darkened room. The Tevas-kaar stepped onto the fallen door, careful not to put his foot on any molten metal; heat radiated off of it in waves. The room was larger than he expected and built like a comfortable studio apartment; false windows brought in a modicum of light meant to appear natural, but the majority of the light in the room came from the myriad of screens. Computers lined every wall, flickering with light and activity; the floor was kept clear and marked with treadmarks from a wheeled desk chair. In a side space was a bed, neatly kempt, and doors that presumably led to a refresher. 

He disengaged his lightsaber, the blade vanishing with the distinctive _hiss_ , and walked further into the room. As he did the computer screens died as one and the room’s ceiling lights illuminated. 

“Which of my former associates sent you to free me from Cracken’s clutches?” the same male voice considered, clicking his tongue. “Surely most are dead by now, and most of the rest don’t have the gall or the ability to stage something like this.”

The Tevas-kaar’s eyes scanned the room, guided by the Force. The figure seated in the rolling chair was short, well below average height for a male human, with thick brown fur and whiskers. His eyes were black and beady, with a pair of ears coming up from the top of his head, and his face narrowed to a snout. His hands and feet were both uncovered, ending with dark claws. A Drall, the Tevas-kaar thought with surprise. Not what he’d expected, but the Drall were native to the Corellia system and Vorru had been Moff of Corellia. 

“Moff Fliry Vorru of Corellia,” The Tevas-kaar responded, his voice echoing in the mask. 

Those beady black eyes did not seem particularly intimidated by either his mask or his lightsaber, and even the huge bulk of the metal door laying flat on the floor of his spacious cell had not perturbed the alien calm. “Vorru,” the Drall murmured, considering. “Very well,” he said after a moment and stood to his full one meter height. The movement seemed to pain the alien, and the Tevas-kaar realized that the Drall was very old for one of his species. “For Vorru, I will escape,” he agreed with a nod. 

* * *

Corran hopped out of his X-wing and ducked behind the permacrete barrier that separated the landing pad from the very deep chasm. Overhead X-wings and the odd Imperial fighters continued to spar; Ooryl’s fighter fired a quick quad blast that was almost deafeningly loud to Corran’s ears, and shrapnel cascaded over the landing platforms from the remains of his target. Two other X-wings had landed with him; Myn had already assembled his sniper rifle and was firing at the group of enemies on the opposite ground platform, some twenty meters away. 

There was a network of landing platforms, arranged more or less in a circular pattern around the mountain prison. They each flared out with a large circular landing pad, supported by buttresses and backup repulsorlifts, and connected to the others by the flat area closest to the prison. Green and red blaster fire flashed between the grounded X-wing pilots and the Imperials across the gap between them. 

Nrin dropped down beside Corran, carrying a large case. The Quarren opened it, revealing the component parts of a long-barreled heavy blaster rifle. Corran gaped at it. “You had that in your X-wing?” 

“I decided to keep it after Ciutric,” Nrin said with a toothy grin, assembling the blaster. “You never know the next time Tycho is going to tell us to storm a fortress, after all.” He fitted the pieces together, smacked in one of the power packs, then swung the long barrel of the powerful blaster over the barrier. The weapon roared, sending a hefty bolt of green energy slamming across the chasm, then another. Nrin’s tentacles curled up as he pulled the trigger again and again. 

“I guess this proves you right,” Corran replied, firing his own blaster pistol. “Remind me to stash a blaster rifle in my X-wing when we get back to _Orthavan_.”

Something on the other platform exploded spectacularly, and Corran’s comlink clicked. “I took out that E-web they had set up,” Myn murmured cooly in Corran’s ear, clear despite the scream of ion engines and blaster fire above. “There's another group of them hiding in the structure itself, they’re going to have to make a run for the shuttle sooner or later.” 

There was a roar of engines and the landing craft the Imperials had used to set down lifted slightly off the ground. “They’re getting ready,” Corran announced.

“No, you think?” retorted Nrin. 

The shuttle’s engines roared again, the blast as they flared enough to drown out even the sounds of the ongoing melee above. Corran glanced up as an X-wing swooped overhead, its laser cannons sending bursts of energy into the shuttle, but the _Sentinel’s_ shields proved too strong and sustained the energy without complaint. Corran grimaced, wishing they’d saved a torpedo or two instead of unloading them all into _Invidious._

The X-wing’s run came with its own costs. One of the remaining TIEs splashed the fighter with green and blue fire, puncturing its aft shields and disabling two of the snubfighter’s four engines. A second X-wing bracketed the TIE with laser fire and forced it to go evasive; the first X-wing limped uneasily towards space. 

Corran breathed a sigh of relief, his sudden panic passing. That was Twelve, he was pretty sure, but while Inyri was out of the fight, at least her X-wing was still mostly flyable.

“Here they come!” called Nrin, and his heavy blaster snarled, sending three quick shots towards the prison exit. Corran followed them with his eyes, and then—

The Force screamed at him and Corran’s instincts took over. His father had always taught him to trust his instincts, and that trust had saved his life on more than one occasion. He grabbed Nrin and yanked the large Quarren down and away, the longblaster clattering to the ground next to them. Nrin flailed, resisting in his surprise, and Corran found them all wrapped up in a pile of limbs as Nrin’s three blaster bolts came back at them. The first two soared over their heads—quite possibly at the right height to take their heads off if Corran hadn’t reacted—while the third struck the permacrete barrier and sent agonizing fragments scouring over their skin. 

Corran rolled off of Nrin and pulled his lightsaber off his belt, the metal of the hilt chilled by the cool mountain air, and ignited the silver-white blade with its distinctive _snap-hiss_. He stood awkwardly as across the wide chasm the now small group of Imperials was running towards the waiting shuttle. One of the group fired at them, and Corran focused to his utmost to to bat away a pistol shot. There were three of them he could see; a woman wearing what looked like an Imperial Moff’s uniform (which was odd, to say the least) and holding the blaster which had just shot at him, a Drall running uncertainly alongside her seemingly of his own volition (which was equally odd), and a tall man wearing full-body bronzed armor, including a white-masked helmet that covered his face. In the man’s hand was a glowing blue lightsaber.

Of the three of them, the man with the lightsaber was certainly both the most odd and the most concerning.

Nrin fumbled with his long blaster as Myn’s sniper rifle fired at the group, but the armored man stopped, turned towards them, and batted the fire away as he walked backwards towards the shuttle. The woman and the Drall both jumped onto the shuttle’s lifted landing ramp, the Drall struggling with it for a moment. Nrin raised his blaster and fired another shot, but the man deflected it back, forcing Corran to bat it down. He put his hand on Nrin’s back and the Quarren hissed in disgust. “They’re going to get away!” 

“Not if we can stop them in the sky,” Corran replied. The shuttle lifted up off the ground, its landing ramp rising to close after it had picked up the man with the lightsaber, and Corran turned to run towards his X-wing then abruptly stopped and threw himself to the permacrete surface of the landing platform just before the landing shuttle’s large underslung laser turret opened fire. 

The heavy bursts from its laser cannon burned into Nrin’s defenseless X-wing and the starfighter exploded. Laser cannons and engines shattered, fragments of melted metal erupting in all directions.

* * *

Tavira swung the shuttle’s turret to target the second X-wing and pulled the trigger. Heavy quad bursts of laser fire lanced into the landed, stationary craft and it too exploded. The third grounded X-wing was now trapped behind a field of debris and fire so she ignored it; besides, the shuttle’s nose swung up towards space and her _Invidious,_ taking it out of her sight. Her attention went entirely to her beloved ship. 

_Those bastards!_ The Star Destroyer she had paid such a high price for was scarred from obvious torpedo impacts, but Navarian was obviously doing a competent enough job commanding the ship; the Star Destroyer was moving into position to expedite her return. _After that_ , she thought viciously, _we’ll see about getting a little revenge._ She reached into her uniform and pulled out a remote. _For now_ , she swung the turret to look behind the shuttle and waited for exactly the right moment…. _It’s time to make sure we get out of here. And get a down payment._ She pressed the button. 

* * *

Corran stared at the burning wreckage of the two destroyed X-wings. For a single, horrified moment he thought Whistler had just died, but no. They’d gotten lucky, and the shuttle had chosen not to blow up his X-wing. _Stupid!_ he chastised himself viciously. _We should never have let them get back to the shuttle!_ But then, a corner of his mind reminded him, they hadn’t known the Imperials would have a lightsaber wielder with them. 

There was a humming sound from the base, and he and Nrin both turned with a frown to look at it. “What’s that?” he asked, his voice hoarse, speaking loudly to be heard over his deafened ears. 

“I don’t know,” Nrin replied, sounding stunned. The sound grew louder, sending a tremble through the ground beneath them. “It sounds like the base’s power generator—” 

The sky above them started to shimmer as the base shields were re-activated, and there was the sudden, deafening roar of the base’s automated defenses. Corran gaped as blue-white fire shot into the sky. Gavin Darklighter’s X-wing caught the edges of an unexpected capital-grade blast which melted both its starboard S-foils, sending the fighter into a death spiral. Corran watched with a fist around his heart until he saw the fighter’s cockpit pop open. Gavin’s ejection seat gilded him down into the ravine while his fighter slammed into one of the nearby mountains, sending snow and rocks upwards in a reasonable imitation of a volcanic eruption. 

The remaining airbourne X-wings went evasive as the automated guns started tracking them. 

“Oh, sithspit,” Corran breathed. He and Nrin took one look at each other and then they sprinted towards the facility.

* * *

“Admiral Tavira’s shuttle is now back on board,” Navarian announced. 

“Excellent,” Vorru replied, maintaining his commanding demeanor. “Helm, get us to the hyper limit. Take us out the moment we reach it. All fighters return to the hangar or be left behind.” His eyes tracked the plot; there were still five X-wings out there combat capable, three of which were still stitching _Invidious_ with laser fire. It wasn’t any serious threat to their spaceworthyness, but they’d already lost far too many of the ship’s turbolasers and tractor beams. Then there was the Corellian corvette racing down on them. A corvette was normally no threat to a Star Destroyer, but _Invidious’_ battle damage meant they had both fewer teeth and less protection than normal. The corvette probably couldn’t kill them—probably—but it could certainly hurt them some more. 

Best to avoid that. They had what they came for. 

The three remaining X-wings swarmed over _Invidious’_ hull, firing indiscriminately. There was a sudden cheer from the portside crew pit, and Vorru peered over just in time to see an X-wing spin past the portside bridge windows, out of control. The pilot had lost an S-foil and the attached engine from a turbolaser blast, and was trying to maneuver out of the combat. As Vorru watched, the pilot managed to recover, barely, before he spun into the planet’s dense web of metallic satellites. The fighter’s engines flared and it limped off in the direction of the incoming corvette. That seemed to be enough, and the last two X-wings broke off their pursuit, weaving to avoid turbolaser fire as they retreated, allowing the Star Destroyer to recover its remaining fighters and escape. 

A costly victory, Vorru thought as he peered out the starboard bridge windows at the ship’s blackened hull. But despite the damage, he knew this _was_ a victory. He had what he had come for, and there was an upside to all the damage. _Invidious_ would now need maintenance and repair even more than it had before. Tavira could not supply that… but Vorru was pretty sure that _he_ could. 

The Star Destroyer reached the hyper limit and transitioned into hyperspace without the Moff even noticing. _Yes_ , he thought, smiling to himself. _This will work nicely_. 

  
  



	8. Chapter Seven

Wedge Antilles pulled his helmet off and tossed it to the side, then pushed his hands through his hair. Gate whistled from the astromech socket behind him and the X-wing’s cockpit released. Wedge pushed it up, climbing out and then down the ladder that the maintenance crew brought in. _Ession Strike’s_ hangar was cramped, and as soon as he was down the crew maneuvered the fighter deeper into the hangar to create more space for the remainder of Rogue Squadron’s X-wings. 

_What of them are left,_ he thought bitterly. _Half my pilots are out of action after today._

They hadn’t lost any pilots and that was no small consolation, but Gavin, Nrin, and Myn had lost their X-wings, and Inyri, Hobbie, and Corran’s fighters were going to need some time in the shop before they could be considered combat ready (though Corran’s probably would only take a few hours). That left just Wedge, Tycho, Wes, and Ooryl ready to fly on a moment’s notice (their now total lack of proton torpedoes notwithstanding). And the Squadron had never gotten fully up to strength even before it had been assigned to Bel Iblis. 

He was down to a mere third of a typical twelve fighter squadron. 

Not good enough. 

His pilots were rattled, he knew. Corran was one of the most level-headed men he knew, and Corran had sounded strained even when announcing the _good_ news that he and the other Rogues on the ground had managed to retake control of Cracken’s droid-operated prison and shut its shields and guns back down.

The thought of Cracken made Wedge scowl. This was the _last_ time he would let the head of NRI send him and his squadron blind into combat. They were the New Republic now, not the Rebellion, and desperation was no longer justification for an overreliance on grit, skill, and luck! That overreliance had gotten more than a few of his pilots killed, including some of the best.

Wedge took a breath. In the last few years Luke had often told him—on the rare occasion the two of them spent any time together—that serenity came from proper breathing. He exhaled, and then inhaled again slowly, letting his stomach inflate as he did, mindful of Luke’s brief lessons. 

It helped, a little.

His Rogues were arriving now; Tycho was bringing them in one at a time. Inyri’s X-wing was blackened from laser fire that had come too close to puncturing her cockpit, and a quick glance told him that she was probably going to need both of her dorsal engines replaced. Corran’s green-and-black X-wing came uneasily through the hangar next, the fighter pocked and marked from shrapnel strikes. Whistler, Corran’s astromech, offered a relieved whoop as the snubfighter settled to the deck. Gate whistled back as the techs extracted him with a crane.

The cockpit of Corran’s X-wing opened and Corran clambered down the ladder quickly wheeled into place. He hit the ground with a two-footed thump, gave the tech a thumbs-up, and waved to Whistler. “Take care of the X-wing, Whistler, I’ll be back to check on it in a little bit.” When he saw Wedge watching him, he strode over. “General.”

“Corran,” Wedge nodded back. “What news of the prison?” 

As Corran came closer, Wedge could see the toll the battle had taken on him. His face was streaked with grime and blood, and his lightsaber—which Corran usually kept carefully out of sight, very protective of the fact that he had Force talents—hung openly from his belt. He pushed his brown hair back, dried sweat making him look even more miserable. He gave Wedge a serious expression and tossed a casual salute. “Cracken didn’t keep many prisoners here, and we’re pretty sure there was only one escapee. A Drall; the prison records just have him listed as Eliezer.” Corran shook his head. “There’s something familiar about that name, Wedge, but I can’t quite place it. I think I must’ve came across it at some point during my time in CorSec, but...” he shrugged helplessly. “Whistler doesn’t remember him, so it wasn’t one of my cases. I do know who got him out, though, and you’ll recognize her. Nrin recognized her immediately from the prison security footage.” 

Corran handed him a datacard, and Wedge glanced down at the series of images. He felt his lips contort into an annoyed scowl. “Leonia Tavira,” he muttered. 

“ _Moff_ Leonia Tavira,” Corran corrected. “At least from the uniform she was wearing.”

“She was Moff of the Ado Sector when the Rogues first encountered her on Eiattu. That was about five years ago, not that long after Endor,” Wedge mused, wearing an expression that was a cross between a smirk and a frown. “Hobbie and Wes will be thrilled, she captured and threatened to execute them.” 

“Nrin told me a bit about that while we waited for Nawara to pick up Gavin. Gavin has a broken arm, by the way, but he’ll be fine after a quick bacta dip. Oh, and we recovered Gavin’s astromech; Tycho managed to get him out of that ravine he got stuck in.” Corran took back his datapad. “We’ve got a bigger problem than Tavira, though.”

Wedge frowned. “What do you mean? Do you know why Cracken had this Eliezer locked up?”

Corran shook his head and frowned. “No, I don’t, and that’s frustrating. Eliezer’s prison wasn’t what I would’ve expected; he had computer access and HoloNet access, which Cracken had quite deliberately provided him. You’ll have to ask NRI about that.” He paused for a second, then shrugged. “I wonder if Iella might remember his name. She always had a better memory than I did for minor details while we were partners in CorSec.” He held up his hand. “But, back to the problem.” Corran put his hand on his lightsaber. “Wedge, Tavira was accompanied by a Force-wielder, someone skilled with a lightsaber. He deflected Nrin’s blaster bolts back at us during the lightfight, and took the door to Eliezer’s cell off its hinges. We found it still smoldering on the floor where he left it.”

“A _Force-_ wielder?” Wedge asked slowly. 

“One with a _lightsaber_ ,” Corran confirmed. “He was wearing some kind of bizarre bronze armor, too, and his face was covered with a mask. We never got a look at him.” 

Wedge’s blood was steadily getting colder. Leonia Tavira had been a formidable foe in the past, and her principal weakness had been an impetuosity that might have been a product of youth. Five years older, was she also five years wiser? Five years more experienced? She clearly had access to a Star Destroyer, but a Star Destroyer _and_ a Force adept? And now also a prisoner that General Airen Cracken, the New Republic’s intelligence savant, had deemed sufficiently dangerous to stash in a fully unmanned prison in a system so unremarkable that their star charts hadn’t even given it a name? 

“Not good,” Wedge murmured.

The conversation subsided under the scream of a snubfighter’s engines. They both looked behind them and saw Hobbie’s X-wing nosing its way cautiously into the hangar. The fighter had seen better days; it was missing one full S-foil and half of another one, and the whine of the craft as it settled to the ground was the sound of two engines straining to do a job that would normally have been done by four. The engines sounded almost relieved as Hobbie let the wounded snubfighter rest.

Hobbie popped the fighter canopy and gave Wedge a tired wave. “Hey, Boss. Good news, I’m not dead,” he called dourly. 

“Glad to hear it,” Wedge called back pointedly. “What happened?”

“Lucky turbolaser blast,” Hobbie scowled. “I would’ve hit their bridge if they hadn’t clipped me, too.” He shook his head. “I get no luck.”

“You’re lucky you’re still alive,” Wedge pointed out, then clapped Corran on the back and adopted some forced cheer. “Well, I’m sure Zraii will be thrilled at the excellent state you two have brought your fighters back in.”

The two men both grimaced. Zraii, Rogue Squadron’s Verpine chief mechanic, was notoriously protective of his X-wings and seemed to like them more than he liked their pilots. “I think I’ll go see if Whistler managed to get anything else useful out of the prison computer,” Corran said. 

Hobbie just looked mournfully at his crippled snubfighter, hung his head, and sighed. 

* * *

Unlike most Corellian corvettes, the bridge of _Ession Strike_ was buried in the heart of the ship. Wedge climbed up one of the ladders to reach it. Inside was the corvette’s bridge crew, all alert for a potential return of their Star Destroyer friend. Atril was huddled next to a Bothan at the communications station. She looked up as she saw Wedge approaching and folded her arms behind her back. The Bothan, distracted and failing to notice his approach, did so much more hastily once Wedge had joined them. “As you were,” Wedge nodded at them the way senior officers had once nodded at him. “Anything new?” 

Atril shook her head. “No. We’ve finished our survey of the base defenses and there isn’t much left here.” She frowned. “We might have to stay and picket the system ourselves for a while.” 

Wedge scoffed and shook his head. “I trusted Cracken and agreed to do him a favor and come here and check it out for him because no one else was available. I’ve done that. I’ve no intention of being stuck on guard duty.” 

“Very well, General,” Atril replied formally, the formality giving her Coruscanti accent some additional bite. “Orders?” 

“I need a secure communications link to Coruscant,” he replied. “And by secure, I mean as well encrypted as we have available. I need to report to General Cracken.” He handed the Bothan a datapad. “It doesn’t need to be a live communication, though. Take this, transmit it to NRI as soon as we have a HoloNet encrypt prepared.” 

_Ession Strike’s_ furred communications specialist took the datapad and nodded. “I’ll begin working on it right away.” He turned to his station. 

Atril stepped closer to Wedge, lowering her voice. “That Star Destroyer, _Invidious_ . My people have found two mentions of her in the ship’s intelligence records. The most recent one has her as part of Admiral Teradoc’s little fiefdom in the Deep Core. If Teradoc has sent any kind of reinforcement to Rogriss out here, it could radically alter the balance of power; our numerical advantage over Rogriss isn’t _that_ great.”

Wedge frowned. That was true, though Leonia Tavira working for Teradoc seemed unlikely. She had always been out for _herself_ , not for the Empire. But that had been years ago now, and Tavira could have changed... “It’s definitely something to be concerned about,” he agreed. “Put together a report and send it off to General Bel Iblis as soon as it’s ready.” 

“It’s already written,” Atril replied, her grey eyes watching him with some concern. “Are you all right?”

Wedge shook his head, his expression a rather pointed command to drop it. He turned towards the exit back into _Strike’s_ main spinal hallway. “Let me know when we hear from Cracken,” he ordered, leaving Atril watching him as he left. 

* * *

Atril tracked Wedge down a few hours later. _Ession Strike’s_ bridge had once been located at the bow of the ship, but at the Battle of Talasea it had taken a direct hit, killing then-Lieutenant Tabanne’s immediate predecessor and leaving her in command of the corvette. She still wished she hadn’t gotten _Ession Strike_ only because Choday Hrakness had been killed, but battlefield promotions were hardly rare. 

Wedge was sitting in the forward lounge that had replaced the ship’s original bridge area. It was compact and not particularly comfortable, but it presented a nice view of the nameless planet they orbited and the numerous metallic rocks and moons that orbited that planet. Wedge was looking over a stack of datapads, each containing a different report: maintenance, tactical, strategic, intelligence. He was reading each one, adding his own notations and shortcuts to get back to important data quickly. Next to him his astromech, Gate, whistled softly as he integrated the most important information into his databanks so Wedge could access it even while piloting his X-wing. 

Atril bit her lip, sure this wasn’t a good idea, then sat on the couch next to him. “Going to answer my question now?” she asked.

He didn’t look at her. “I thought I told you to drop it.”

“Well, you haven’t talked to Tycho or Wes, Wedge. I know, I checked. So whatever it is that’s bothering you you’ve decided to stew on it rather than actually talk about it.” She shrugged. “Besides, in the forward lounge you agree to leave your rank at the door.” 

Wedge sighed and put the datapad he was holding—a summary report on what was left of Cracken’s secret prison’s defenses—down and turned to her. “Sorry, Atril. I’m just a bit on edge right now.”

Atril offered him a small smile. “I get it, Wedge.” Years before Wedge had been there for her when she had needed to talk. The Battle of Ession had been a decisive victory, and the New Republic had even re-named the captured corvette  _ Night Caller  _ in its honor. But for Atril, the memory of Ession would always be mixed with trauma and regret. 

Being stuck in a dying, endlessly spinning out-of-control TIE fighter after she’d blasted open the bridge of a Star Destroyer to begin battle had left her shaken. And then, to return to her ship and promptly be expected to resume command, when she’d only days before become captain after Choday’s death… 

There were times she wished she hadn’t let Fleet Command rename _Night Caller_ in honor of that battle. It had been a few years, though, and the dreams weren’t as common as they had been. 

When she’d needed help, she turned to Wedge. Now she saw him bundling his fears and hiding them away, even from his most trusted confidantes, and she knew that it was her turn to reach out. “But that’s not going to distract me.”

“I’m mad at Cracken,” Wedge said stiffly. “And I’m mad at myself for letting him talk me into flying this mission.”

That was true, she had no doubt, but it wasn’t what was really bothering him. “All your pilots came back.”

“Barely,” Wedge retorted. “And we could easily have lost Gavin and Hobbie if things had gone just a little bit differently.” He shook his head. “What was I thinking, taking an understrength squadron of X-wings in against a Star Destroyer all by ourselves, and without even a full load of proton torpedoes?” 

“It was a good plan and it worked,” Atril countered him, her voice cooling noticeably. “We did a lot of damage to that Star Destroyer and we came out of the fight with valuable intelligence. And none of us is dead.” She crooked a finger at him. “And once you sit down and talk with Tycho he’ll tell you _exactly_ the same thing.” 

Wedge rubbed his face, looking more tired than she remembered him, even during the doldrums of the Thrawn campaign. 

“As for your understrength squadron,” she continued, “there have got to be great X-wing pilots out there you’ve flown with before who would be happy to fill in your vacancies, at least for a while.”

That prompted him to look up, and his brown eyes were suddenly thoughtful.

“Personally, I think you need a vacation,” she continued, debating whether to bring up Iella. “And—”

The door to the lounge slid open and Tycho stepped in, still wearing his orange Rogue Squadron flightsuit. In his hand he held a datapad, and his expression was grim. He glanced between them for a moment, then his eyes met Wedge’s. “We just got Cracken’s response,” he said simply. “You’re not going to like this.”

* * *

  
  
  


When the New Republic liberated Coruscant, it also captured the headquarters of the Imperial Security Bureau. The ISB was still the self-proclaimed chief defender of the Emperor’s New Order from perceived internal threats, and proud of being vicious and ruthless about it. For that it had been funded extraordinarily well, lavished with an inordinately large share of the Empire’s yearly budget. Much of that money was siphoned into the private accounts of corrupt bureaucrats, Iella Wessiri knew, but some of it went to producing extraordinarily fine covert intelligence vessels. 

Iella attempted to rest in a passenger seat of one of those vessels, which had been captured intact along with ISB headquarters and had been repurposed for NRI use. With its help getting into Ukio had been relatively easy, but getting _out_ had been far more dangerous. After the battle at Hishyim, the Empire had instituted a sector-wide security crackdown to find the insidious mole that had leaked their strategic maneuvers to the enemy, and as _she_ had been that insidious mole Iella had been more than a little concerned that they would be caught. 

Three hyper-jumps out of Ukio, she finally allowed herself to relax. “I think we made it,” she groaned, running her hands through her light brown-blonde hair and offering her companion a tired smile. 

“Was a bit dicier than I wanted it to be, but yes,” her fellow passenger, Kapp Dendo, agreed with a grin. A red-skinned, horned Devaronian with a long history working in New Republic Intelligence, Kapp was one of NRI’s more skilled commando operatives, having been trained at one point by General Crix Madine himself. He and Leia’s aide Winter had famously been one of Rebel Alliance’s better covert teams during the years right before and after Endor. “This is the last jump before Druckenwell.” 

“Good,” Iella sighed, brushing her hands over her slacks. Had the Imperials realized they hadn’t come to Ukio to pick up a food shipment for transit to the Imperial regional headquarters at Linuri, they would almost certainly have been interdicted by now. Assuming they’d gotten away clean, or even with just a few hour lead, it was unlikely that the Imperials would be able to stop them before they reached Druckenwell. She relaxed a bit; that meant they were (almost certainly) safe. “Once we get to Druckenwell we can unload that shipment of foodstuffs and check in with Cracken for our next assignment.”

“I wonder if we’ll get any details about how Hishyim went,” Kapp mused thoughtfully. 

Iella wondered the same. Wedge and Corran would almost certainly have been at Hishyim to fight Rogriss’ two Star Destroyers. She knew the two men had both flown dozens— _hundreds_ even, in Wedge’s case—of combat missions, most of them far more dangerous than that one would have been. That didn’t prevent her heart palpitations at the thought of it. _You knew what you were getting yourself into when you finally gave in and kissed him,_ she scolded herself. _He’s a pilot. An X-wing pilot. He does dangerous things sometimes._

Wedge had been so patient and loving, even before they’d been a couple. How many functions had they attended together, arm-in-arm? How many times had they found an excuse for a quiet dinner that they both had known was a date, even if neither had ever used the title? He’d waited more than a year after her husband’s death before approaching her for a date-they-hadn’t-called-a-date. 

She smiled. He’d been so… shy. She clung to that memory, and the memories that had followed, wishing fervently in that moment that she and Wedge had chosen different careers. 

She could feel Kapp very carefully not saying anything. He had learned not to, as she had a tendency to snap at him when he interrupted her out of a moment of reverie. Corran had learned that lesson too. She pushed herself out of the copilot’s seat, not looking at Kapp. “I’m going to go shower and try to take a nap,” she said. “Wake me when we get to Druckenwell.” 

  
  
  


What little sleep Iella got was plagued by dreams of Rogue Squadron debris and houses in the Coronet City suburbs, leaving her not-quite-rested when she returned to the cockpit. “What is it?” she asked, yawning, gathering her mussed blonde hair back into a loose tail after her restless sleep. Outside the spinning stars of Hyperspace were gone, replaced by the slowly spinning ugly grey, brown, and green of the highly polluted industrial world of Druckenwell. It had been a major Imperial weapons supplier once; after Endor, it had been one of the first worlds the New Republic had wrested from the Empire. The New Republic garrison fleet in orbit featured multiple Mon Calamari Star Cruisers. Iella felt relief sag through her; if the Empire had been chasing them, it couldn’t catch them now.

“Cracken is calling,” Kapp informed her.

She stiffened. “Right now?” 

“Right now,” Kapp confirmed and ushered her into the copilot’s seat. Next to her, the ship’s pilot—one of the four Noghri commandos that was under Kapp’s command—kept the ship in close contact with the local HoloNet node.

She tiredly pushed her hair out of her face, and then the green eyes of her superior appeared on the large console monitor. “Agent Wessiri, Colonel Dendo,” Airen Cracken said, his expression stiff and unhappy. “Good work on Ukio. Unfortunately, I have a new assignment for you.” 

Iella and Kapp glanced at each other, frowning. “Yes, sir?” replied Kapp. 

Cracken’s expression was pinched and there were more lines in his face than usual. Whatever had happened since they had been last in contact, it hadn’t been good. “There’s been a jailbreak at a secret NRI facility in the Albrion Sector. I sent the Rogues to investigate—”

She sat up, her breath catching in her chest.

“—and they engaged a Star Destroyer, the _Invidious._ Our most recent intelligence reports suggest that Warlord Teradoc gave her to Moff Leonia Tavira in exchange for a substantial bribe.” Cracken's expression darkened. “The Rogues drove her off, but not before she made off with the facility’s prized prisoner—the Drall slicer Eliezer.” 

Iella’s heart ached with worry, but surely Cracken would have told her if something happened to Wedge, and that name… She forced her mind away from the Rogues and back to the matter at hand, closing her eyes and thinking back to her time with CorSec. Drall were native to the planet Drall, which was in the Corellia system and under CorSec jurisdiction, and the name was definitely familiar. “My old boss in CorSec mentioned him a few times,” Iella murmured, visualizing Gil’s face and her old CorSec office, putting herself back in the past for a moment. 

_“At least I was never the one CorSec sent to try to get Eliezer,”_ she remembered Gil saying. _“He never left evidence we could pin on him. I wish we knew how he did what he did.”_ But what was it Eliezer had done… 

Cracken just nodded, interjecting into her thoughts. “He was a CorSec dreamstalker for a long time, decades ago. He was seemingly always able to extract information from even some of their most secure communications.” Cracken's expression darkened. “Just having this conversation is probably unwise with him loose, but I doubt he’s been able to get any equipment up and running so quickly.” 

“How did he end up in a NRI prison?” Kapp asked.

The expression on Cracken’s face was one of a temporarily satisfied predator. “That’s a long story and not one worth sharing. Eliezer was … an asset, of sorts. He agreed to extract certain information on people, places, or ships for NRI, and I agreed to keep him comfortable in his confinement. He’s provided several vital pieces of information over the years.” Cracken's smile thinned. “One of the reasons he was so dangerous was no one knew I’d flipped him, and most thought him dead.” 

“If he worked for you, then you must know how he does what he does?” Iella asked, curiosity finally fully overtaking tension. 

“I know the basics. During the last years of the Old Republic Eliezer was a historian and traveling scholar; he studied in Corellia, at the Mrlsst Trade and Science Academy, and at the Arcanum of Ghel Daneth, among others. His specialty was the history and inner workings of the HoloNet.” 

The HoloNet permitted all long-distance galactic faster-than-light communication, Iella knew. It was also a relic of the past: first built and implemented by the Old Republic at least four thousand years ago, the actual technology of the HoloNet could be replicated, but was no longer fully understood. It was commonly believed to be effectively unsliceable because of the esoteric functioning of the underlying technology, barring direct infiltration of one of the relay nodes (which could and did happen, but was relatively easy to spot). But if that wasn’t true…

“He can exploit the HoloNet?” she asked carefully. 

Cracken nodded. “How he does it I don’t know, he’s extraordinarily protective of those secrets. Unsurprisingly, I suppose. All I gave him while he was in custody was limited HoloNet access, he always refused to share anything about how he did what he did, but was otherwise cooperative.” Cracken's cheek twitched angrily. “He had a very similar, somewhat less amicable agreement with Imperial Intelligence for a brief time, and before that he was usually employed by criminal elements on Corellia.” 

Iella nodded slowly. Yes, that would make sense, and matched what she remembered of the way Gil talked about him. She met Cracken’s eyes, acutely aware that the live-communication between NRI headquarters on Coruscant and their ship in orbit of Druckenwell was only possible thanks to the HoloNet. “What do you want us to do?” 

Cracken nodded, businesslike. “I’m sending you everything I have on Eliezer. Every rumor, every case report, every job he did for me in captivity. Needless to say I want you to keep it all _very_ close, as there are things in there that are so classified that I’d erase them from my own mind if I could. I want you to take all of them and find him for me.” His expression grew very, very serious. “I don’t know what his agenda is, but I _do_ know what he can do. If he’s free, and he decides to go back to working for the highest bidder, then no secret we have is safe. Every military maneuver, every battle plan, every classified communication, every political secret… all of it could be had for the right price. Or, alternatively, we forego all use of the HoloNet and cripple ourselves, turning every routine communication into a slog requiring hundreds or thousands of courier vessels and delays for travel time.” He shook his head. “Eliezer has been my secret weapon for years, Iella. Now he’s someone else’s, and we can’t let it stand.”

She rubbed her cheek with a sigh. So much for spending time with Wedge after the liberation of Ukio. “Yes, sir.” She gave a slow, resigned nod. “We’ll get to work.”

  
  



	9. Chapter Eight

The Palace District had changed a lot in the six years since Palpatine's death. Mara went out of her way, now, to think of him as _Palpatine_ and not _The Emperor_. There was some small satisfaction every time she thought of her old Master and used his name (always with the awareness that Palpatine had been a lying fraud) and not his title (which still sent a shudder of awareness and obeisance through her that she was _going_ to eliminate).

Though, the minor disrespect of her use of his name would no doubt frustrate Palpatine far less than her choice of breakfast company. Across from her Skywalker was perusing the Woonseer Cafe's intricate menu with an attentive expression.

They'd spent a fair amount of time together since her return to Coruscant a week ago. Before she and Karrde had left Coruscant on their Smugglers' Alliance quest, she and Skywalker had found a surprisingly comfortable camaraderie, sharing meals and furthering her Jedi training. Now that she had returned, that old pattern had resumed as if it had never ended. Her primary complaint was Skywalker's poor taste in eateries. As far as she was concerned, most of _those_ places were less sanitary than a trash compactor and less culinarily satisfying than Imperial ration bars.

(Though she actually rather _liked_ Imperial ration bars. An acquired taste, probably.)

Luckily one of the things that hadn't changed about the Palace District was the plethora of local dining options. When she'd been younger, before Palpatine had put her into full operation (like she was a combat droid needing its last system checks and not a _child_ who still needed to grow up) she had used her freedom of movement to explore the city. She'd found a number of places that had become havens. The Imperial Opera, now renamed and under new management, had been one of her favorites. (When she'd finally gotten up the courage to look at ticket availability, she'd actually lamented the loss of her position as Emperor's Hand for the first time in years; without Palpatine's box seats it would take her _years_ to get in to see a performance.)

With the opera out of the question (at least for now), Mara turned to her other favorite hideaways. The Adarian Building was located not far from the Imperial Palace; a magnificently constructed building of multicolored transparisteel that glittered in the sun, casting rainbow shadows down over the plaza that faced the Senate Dome. During Imperial rule the building had been Doriana Tower, named after one of the Emper—of _Senator Palpatine's_ most trusted aides during the Old Republic years.

The building's top floor held another of Mara's favorite places. The ceiling pointed upwards in a tall pyramid, made of tinted transparisteel that cast the floor below in slowly shifting colors, ringed by walkways with immaculately-ordered greenery that offered spots of solitude. Inside planters with a rich mix of imported potting soil hosted plants and flowers. They crawled up the interior of the transparisteel pyramid and helped block the sun's glare, and were well-maintained by diligent gardener droids. The tables were spaced far apart from one another, each sized to hold only one or two persons, which was just fine with Mara; before now, she'd always come here alone.

Besides the artful ambiance, the food here had always been excellent.

The culinary arts had never been required for the position of Emperor's Hand (ration bars provided all the nutritional and caloric value that the human body required and could be easily carried and stored), but she did enjoy fine food even if she'd never learned to prepare it for herself. Karrde had realized early in their business relationship that she could be lured with the promise of a fine meal and had exploited that more than once; this both annoyed her and she allowed it, since the exploitation was never onerous and the food was always excellent.

Skywalker put his menu down and gave his order to the table droid. "I can't believe I haven't been here before," he mused, his blonde hair tousled. He offered her one of his bright, naive smiles, looking absurdly youthful.

She rolled her eyes, but the corner of her mouth curled up in a smile of her own. "During the Empire this place was a refuge for members of the court aristocracy who wanted to get away for a little solitude," she explained quietly, sipping her caf. "That aristocracy is mostly gone now, although—" she glanced around the room and nodded subtly at a few of the other diners "—I still recognize some of the faces here. My guess is this place is still finding its new clientele. It's only been a few years since the New Republic took Coruscant and a lot of the old aristocracy fled."

Skywalker nodded, looking out the large transparisteel windows. The Senate Dome loomed across the square, its huge, mushroom dome busy with activity as all the Senators—and their staff—arrived with the sun. Beyond that, casting the Dome in shadows, was the looming dark towers of the Imperial Palace. "Leia says they're going to dismantle it," he murmured.

Mara blinked. "Dismantle what?"

Skywalker nodded at the window and the imposing structure beyond. "The Imperial Palace. There are enough people uncomfortable with the symbolism of the New Republic taking up residence there that they're planning to knock it down and replace it with something new."

Mara looked out the window after him. The Imperial Palace was an enormously tall black castle, magnificent and imposing, ringed with towers. Whatever had been at that location before the Empire was long gone now; the palace had been there as long as she'd been alive. She'd been raised in the palace. A small part of her heart still looked out at the building and thought of it as home. But that was the part of her that still wanted to say "The Emperor" instead of Palpatine. "The Smugglers' Alliance has just been assigned an office there," she replied, her voice sounding distant in her ears as she fought down a swell of memories.

Skywalker nodded. His hand twitched, sliding towards her, then he drew it back. "I know," he replied. "Leia told me. But it's only temporary… she said that you'll have a new office when the replacement is prepared. I'm not sure what they're planning, exactly."

"Good riddance," Mara said darkly, turning her head away from the Imperial Palace. "The view here will be nicer when it's gone anyway." Her eyes met Skywalker's, and the compassion shining in his blue eyes made her want to… throw her caf at him? Hug him? Toss him through the multicolored transparisteel? But then he smiled at her again and her brief bout of indignation faded. So he was feeling overprotective. It was just Luke. She could handle overprotective.

The conversation was interrupted by the delivery of their food. "Wow," Skywalker said, his eyes widening as he took in his plate of seared Nerf rashers over jeweled groats. "I hope the food tastes as good as it looks."

Mara was already delicately conveying the first bites of her dish, an array of crepes made from small eggs from factory-bred Coruscant game fowl with sauteed throneworld fungus inside. She paused to answer, "it should" before she took a bite.

Despite having ordered this meal dozens of times before, almost a ritual in years past, she was unimpressed with the overly-curated, staid flavors of the standard all-coreworld breakfast for the great and good.

Skywalker, on the other hand, was paying only surface-level attention to table manners and was focused on devouring his plate with the rapaciousness of a starving rancor. He offered her an apologetic smile, slowing his pace. "It _is_ as good as it looks," he confirmed.

 _Farmboy,_ she thought affectionately.

He cut off a piece of the nerf and speared it with a fork, watching her. "So, are you free for some training this morning?"

She quickly did a mental rundown of her schedule. "I have a few hours," she replied, taking another bite of her own meal. She wondered if perhaps the tower had gotten a new cooking staff since the Imperial turnover and the Adarians were not as adept with the menu as its previous management had been. "Meditation again today? You're not going to make me do that handstand, are you?"

She had expected her teasing to make him smile. It usually did. But instead his expression grew serious. "No," he said, putting his fork down. "Not meditation today. I was thinking I could teach you some of the more advanced lightsaber forms. See if any of them appeal to you?"

Mara frowned. The Emperor had taught her a great many Force abilities: sensory and memory enhancement, basic trances, levitation and telekinesis, and most importantly danger awareness. She'd carried a lightsaber as the Emperor's Hand—for a moment she allowed herself to mourn the loss of the magenta blade, which she'd sacrificed to escape the one time Isard's operatives actually managed to find her—but lightsaber dueling had never been a serious part of her training. It hadn't been necessary; there weren't enough lightsaber wielders left in the galaxy for her to need to train to oppose them herself. That was what Palplatine had kept Vader for. And Vader had been the only true master of the form who might have taught it to her; she had no doubt that he would have refused had she ever asked.

"Why?" she asked.

Skywalker shrugged, his expression taking on that distant gaze that told her he was communing with the Force as much as he was talking to her. "I'm not sure," he admitted. "I just think it's important."

She wrinkled her nose. "You know, I wish these Force premonitions of yours were a bit more precise. It's hard to plan for the future when all you get is vague intuition."

Skywalker smiled. "Sometimes they're more precise… but not often," he said. "It's not any different than your danger sense, really, it's just more removed from the threats." He nodded at her. "With a little more training, I have no doubt that you'll start getting them too. Maybe you'll be better at interpreting them than I am. I'm still not sure what to make of my last vision, the one of a man training a boy."

Mara took another bite of her breakfast, thinking about how quickly her own Force powers had grown over the last year. Since she had fulfilled Palpatine's last command (she refused to imagine Luuke's dead face, fighting successfully to prevent the image from resolving in her mind), all the old powers she'd possessed as the Emperor's Hand had returned, with more consistency and fidelity than she'd had at the previous height of her power. The only one that remained absent was the ability to communicate with the Force across galactic distances, but as she'd only ever been able to do that with Palpatine, she was just as happy it hadn't returned.

So Skywalker was probably right. Pretty soon, she might start having more Force premonitions too. What was it he had said when he'd given her his old lightsaber?

" _Because you're on your way to becoming a Jedi and you'll need it."_

Skywalker was watching her with that damnably knowing expression of his, sympathetic and caring. She huffed softly, glaring at him. "I'm not about to join your damned-fool crusade," she hissed.

"Maybe not," Skywalker said with a grin. "But if I teach you some more lightsaber forms, you might be able to beat me the next time we spar…"

"I can beat you _now,_ " she retorted.

His grin grew broader. "Well, let's finish breakfast and I'll give you an opportunity to prove it."

She pointed her fork at him. "You're on, Jedi."

* * *

The training facility in the Imperial Palace which had been allocated to Skywalker for lightsaber training was hidden away, in a centrally located but otherwise isolated spot that gave it easy access to the rest of the palace, but that people would be unlikely to stumble over.

It was a location Mara knew well, and the swell of old memories when she entered the room brought her to a halt. Skywalker didn't notice until he'd put several strides between them, turning back with a concerned look. "Mara?"

She shook her head, then strode into the room confidently after him, refusing to allow her past to burden her—or him—this moment. "It's nothing. I was tutored here. In martial arts, echani and others… and dance. Ballroom and performance." She turned away from him, fighting back a swell of memories, both good and bad, sometimes both at once. She had loved to dance, loved it for its own sake, but for Palpatine it had been merely a tool; an asset for a skilled covert operative. Was it something she, Mara Jade, owned for herself? Or had dancing been something that belonged to the Emperor's Hand? Was it something she even _wanted_ to reclaim?

She could tell that Skywalker wanted to ask what she was thinking. To her relief, he didn't inquire further. He just watched her for a long moment, then turned away himself and stepped into a large closet which, in the days of the Empire, had housed weapons of every variety. Now it seemed mostly empty, but he emerged holding a pair of wooden swords just under a meter in length, with a slightly wider wooden handle.

He extended one slowly to her, handle first, and she took her hand off the actual saber at her belt to accept it. "Wooden swords?" It was extremely light, and she spun the handle in her hand comfortably as she adjusted to it. "Solonese airwood?" she guessed. It was heavier than a lightsaber would've been, and balanced slightly differently, but not by that much.

"That's right," Skywalker replied. "We can get a feel for technique with a live blade, but for sparring it's safer to use one of these. They're surprisingly robust and don't break easily."

He walked into the center of the room. Mara could remember it being filled with obstacles, to practice movement over changes in height, but now it was a large, open space. She followed him, keeping a moderate distance.

"I found them on Kamparas," he continued. "It was a quick trip I made a few months ago, looking for Jedi relics; there used to be a training facility there. There wasn't much to be found—the Empire was very thorough when they destroyed the place—but I came across a few relics in the markets." He smiled thinly. "Some of them had been planted by Imperial agents and were decidedly… unhelpful… but some of the local artisans still make these, and some of the local clans do train like the Jedi used to." He tossed the training sword from one hand to the other, then back. "I'm not much of a woodworker, though, so try not to break them."

"No promises," Mara said curtly as she tested the wooden sword. It wasn't a sword, really; it had no edge, and was really just a long stick for all practical purposes. Despite its light weight it felt solid, and Mara thought it would make a pretty decent baton in its own right.

She stretched out her senses to attune herself to her weapon, breathing and centering herself as she remembered from Skywalker's first lessons. "Rules?" Skywalker's expression was confident—eager even. Her competitive instincts flared in response.

The Jedi lifted his training sword into a guard position. "The usual? Start slow and go to light contact?"

Mara nodded. She widened her stance, gripped the handle with both hands and adopted a standard guard with the shaft pointed straight up, dipping the blade in a small salute. Luke matched her and as one they began, working through parries, swings and thrusts at half-speed.

Again as one they drew back. Mara offered Skywalker a new salute, he returned it, and then they moved to clash again, this time at full speed.

Her stick immediately left its guard position as she slid forward, the tip of her blade moving slightly as she probed for weaknesses in his guard. Skywalker offered her none, giving ground and blocking only when necessary; his feet shifted to adjust to her new angle of approach. He glided backwards as she pursued him.

He fought defensively, as he had on Wayland, moving to void and block her thrusts and slashes before shifting to the occasional lightning-fast retaliatory strike to keep her off-balance. Long years of intermittent dance training helped Mara keep her balance. Adjusting her stance, she lowered her core and lashed out with a low strike that caught him by surprise. The tip of her sword nipped at his calves while the base of her blade protected her head and body.

As he parried she pounced, staggering her steps towards him and powering the midpoint of her blade straight into the tip of his, knocking his sword out of the way before transitioning into a leg sweep. To her disappointment she didn't make contact; Luke jumped over her leg, stepping backwards to put some more distance between them. She pursued furiously, on him like slobber on a Hutt as she searched for an opening—

Her aggressiveness almost cost her as Skywalker abruptly shifted from a defensive style to a more offensive one. His sword slashed at her in the middle of a step; the only thing that kept her from catching that blow across the chest was a flicker of Force-awareness. She rolled and came up on the balls of her feet, regaining her center and grinning fiercely as he came after her again. Her sword swatted his out of the way and she caught his chest with a quick snap-kick that, while he managed to step back and avoid most of its power, staggered him slightly.

When he came in again, he did so more cautiously.

Now Mara was playing defense with her blade, trying to make it a moving wall, all while striking out with her extremities when opportunities presented themselves. The shift in tactics had the advantage of not allowing Luke an opening, but it tired her quickly and earned her a stinging blow to her left wrist (and a momentary look of horror from her sparring partner). Mara smiled briefly to reassure him before she transferred to a single-handed grip, body set sideways in a more traditional duelling stance. Then, rather than press his advantage, Skywalker dropped back a step and raised his blade in the two-handed guard that screened his upper torso, took a breath, and stepped into measure with her.

* * *

Luke could feel the sweat beading on his brow as Mara surged to meet him again. He'd caught her off guard by switching from the defensive to the offensive, but just as she was more comfortable attacking, he was more comfortable preserving his energy for critical strikes. Fighting Mara was like fighting a whirlwind—she was always in motion, could move with remarkable deception, and was seemingly mechanical in her endurance. Luke stopped trying to watch her eyes and guess her next move, opening himself fully to the Force and feeling the warmth and certainty of what he had to do to defend against her, just as he could feel her presence stretching out too, looking for an opening of her own.

Mara's eyes gleamed as she thrust the tip of her sword directly at his chest, forcing a small shift and parry, but this attack was a hair slower. She was getting tired, she had to be, but she was no more willing to relinquish this moment of connection than he was. Sparring with droids or whatever commando he could wrangle up was nowhere near as satisfying as sparring with Mara; there was a sheer _rightness_ to it that enticed him to ask each time, and he guessed she felt similarly or she would have said no. Both of them could fight at the limits of their abilities, no holding back. It was liberating.

She stepped back, covering her retreat with two quick jabs, gaining distance before she drew in a long breath, and then to Luke's surprise she flexed her left hand, tossed her sword from her right hand to her left, and realigned her body to fight with her off hand. Mentally anticipating a combined slash and whirling kick up close and ignoring murmurs in the Force, he stepped back himself to open more distance—

And Mara charged, eyes flashing, red braid streaming out behind her, wooden sword aimed right at his head. Luke smiled, judged the distance and stepped in to meet it in mid-swing. As Mara closed, she used the base of her blade to flick his point out of the way, levering it away from his body and useless for anything for a split second. That was all Mara needed. A small, colorful pistol flickered into her hand and she shot him in the chest, just over the heart. The small foam dart bounced off him and fell to the floor before they broke apart and he found himself staring down the barrel of her "blaster" as his sword came up again on instinct.

"Got you," Mara said with a predatory smile, her Force-sense gleaming with satisfaction. She spun the child's toy once to drive her victory home as a smuggler might, then made it disappear into her ensemble like a well-trained assassin.

Luke laughed breathlessly, wiping sweat from his brow. "I think the blaster is cheating, Mara."

"On the contrary, I think it teaches an important lesson, Skywalker. Do you think the next dicred-rate C'baoth or Thrawn will play fair?" she asked, lifting an eyebrow. "And if the answer is no, then why should I put myself at a disadvantage?" She prodded him with the tip of her sword. "And why should you?"

"Let me see if I can explain it," he sighed, moving to fetch two bottles of water from a cooling unit he kept in the training closet and tossing Mara one. She drank from it greedily. "I'm not sure if I fully understand how I feel myself. But, growing up how I did, where I did, I learned what a blaster or slugthrower can do young, and I also learned it was a tool to be respected, not a symbol to wave around to make myself feel big and other people feel small. It puts holes in things, it's designed to, and those things can be targets, food for a week, or a person." He shrugged. "That's what people see. A tool. A soldier's weapon."

Mara frowned at him.

"The saber," he said, motioning his head towards it, "that's a tool too. It can open doors, block blasters. And it's a weapon. But it's also a symbol. When people see a lightsaber, they don't see a soldier, they see a _Jedi_ , and there are still a lot of beings around the galaxy for whom that has meaning." He smiled wryly. "An elegant weapon of a more civilized age, Ben said."

"There is something to that," Mara admitted thoughtfully. Luke looked at her inquisitively, and she sighed. "Before I lost the lightsaber Palaptine gave me, people responded to it in one of two ways. During the Empire, most people saw it and assumed I was like Vader." Both Luke and Mara grimaced. "But after Palpatine's death, I… met others, who saw the blade and reacted with… hopefulness." She looked down. "I got myself into trouble a few times that way," she sighed. "But, symbolic issues or not, Skywalker, a lightsaber has practical limitations that a backup blaster can overcome."

Luke chuckled. "Ben took me into the worst cantina in the worst city on Tatooine and he had the arm off an Aqualish inside of five minutes. That Aqualish had a blaster and it didn't do him any good. If Ben had really needed a blaster, he could have taken that one. And if I ever find myself needing a weapon, I can always take one off my opponents."

Mara wrinkled her nose. "Why not just carry your own all the time so you don't have to rely on some poor unfortunate properly maintaining theirs?" She frowned at him. "Besides, your Imperial file said you carried a blaster. A Merr-Sonn 57 if I recall correctly."

He drank from the water bottle again, moving slightly to begin a cooldown. "I did carry a blaster, until I resigned my military commission," he agreed. "Though I stopped carrying the Merr-Sonn not long after Endor. Han chopped me up a custom BlasTech after we took Druckenwell as a thanks for getting him out of Jabba's. We spent a long time tinkering with it for a longer effective range. I've still got it back in my apartment."

Mara nodded. "When things heat up with the Empire again you should go back to carrying it," she told him firmly.

Luke felt a deep sadness and tried not to let any of it show on his face. "I've tried not to kill anyone I didn't have to since I enlisted. The last few years I've been able to talk down more situations than I've had to fight my way out of. I think not having a visible, recognizable distance weapon might have helped with that. It also might have been why few Jedi carried blasters. They were keepers of the peace, not soldiers, and they were symbols of that peace. I am too. Well, the potential for peace anyway."

Mara shook her head in denial. "No, Skywalker. You're _both_. You're Farmboy, sage, and pilot. Some people expect you to be practically divine. They expect this shining hero of the Republic, perfect and poised and… perfect." She wrinkled her nose. "You try to be what people _expect_ and it'll get you killed. Or maybe it'll get someone else killed because you'll be in a situation where you need a blaster and don't have it." She shook her head again. "You remember that question you asked me before? What does it mean to be a Jedi?"

He nodded.

"Well, here's my answer," she folded her arms across her chest. "Whatever _you_ think it _should_ mean. You're the _only_ Jedi, and you can't be everything to everybody." Her gaze softened. "You can't save the galaxy on your own, Skywalker," she said. "You can't even save the New Republic, not any more than your sister can. In the end, people make their _own_ choices. When I was the Emperor's Hand, it wasn't my job to save the Empire. We all knew only Palpatine could do that, and that was a laughable fiction. It was my job to make a small difference when and where I could. And that was still too much for one woman to do all on her own, a lot of the time." She gave a slight bow, which he returned, stepped in close to hand him the training sword. He took it. "I can't tell you what to do, but I can tell you that I want you doing everything you can to stay alive when you _know_ you're going into dangerous situations."

He sighed heavily. "Mara—"

"Don't 'Mara' me, Farmboy," she interrupted. "You're under no obligation to ride mental rails trying to do what you think Yoda or Ben or any of those other Jedi in that museum would've wanted. Don't get so caught up with striving for their approval that you forget that _you_ get to build traditions too. But they have to make sense." She paused. "Most of the time at least. If they do, the rest of us will just follow your lead." She shook her head at him. "And no," she preempted his question, "that still doesn't mean that I'll join the new order."

Her tone didn't quite match her words, and her refusal didn't dampen his enthusiasm at Mara Jade voluntarily saying that she would follow his lead. That enthusiasm, however, also didn't quite help to lift the full weight of the obligation now draped over his shoulders.

"Hey," Mara brought his attention back to her, her hand wrapped around Anakin Skywalker's lightsaber. His gift to her. She thumbled the blade to life with its distinctive _snap-hiss._ "How about showing me some of those power strikes you were doing? I was getting hits in but my wrist wishes I hadn't, and I should fight more conservatively with a live blade." She saluted the humming blade at him.

Luke, mentally and emotionally drained, hauled himself up. "All right," he replied, shaking off some of the pressure that being the "First of the New Jedi" had heaped on him and focusing instead on the woman standing in front of him, wielding his father's blade. "Let's start with the two forms I used earlier…"

* * *

Hours later, washed and exhausted, Mara finally arrived at the new offices for the Smugglers' Alliance. Unlike the training facility, it was kept in close proximity to all the major administrative centers in the Imperial Palace; the ambassadors' offices, Palace Security's primary coordination center, and the various dignitaries who comprised the New Republic's unofficial aristocracy were all a short walk (or lift) away. Better than that, the docking bay the _Wild Karrde_ was currently stationed in could be reached with a quick airspeeder ride.

She didn't know why Skywalker doubted his ability to teach, or his ability to lead. He was an exemplary teacher, guiding her ably through both his verbal guidance and gentle Force promptings, helping her learn quickly and using Force techniques to speed her development of the muscle memory so necessary to precise training. He would model, she would imitate, and though her arms were furious and the rest of her was tired, it had been one of the most productive learning sessions she could remember having.

She wondered, vaguely, if the location had also helped. The training room in the Imperial Palace that Skywalker had co-opted had always been a location she'd found conducive to learning. She preferred to credit Skywalker, though.

"Ahh, Mara," Karrde greeted her. He glanced at the chrono, then back at Mara. "Had a productive morning?" he asked.

"Yes," she replied, moving to the desk that would become hers. "Have we acquired a droid to help with the office work yet?" she asked, sorting through the stack of datapads and flimsi that was waiting for her. She sighed as she saw page after page requiring a formal signature.

 _The best part of being Emperor's Hand was definitely the lack of flimsiwork,_ she thought tiredly.

Karrde watched her, sliding back in his chair. He'd furnished these rooms himself, Mara knew; the decor and lighting distinctly reminded her of his office aboard the _Wild Karrde_. His white tunic was dotted with red highlights, its sleeves rolled up as he worked; his usual light blue cloak was folded over the back of his chair. He'd also grown out his beard some, letting it thicken (and grey) in a way that reminded Mara very vaguely of the old Imperial aristocracy. The overall effect added to his usual distinguished appearance, but not so much that anyone would forget his roguishness. Clearly, Karrde intended to dress for the part he wanted to play. "Finding one that I can be assured has no potential exploits is difficult," he reminded her. "I will continue searching."

Mara thought of her droid, Kaythree. Palpatine hadn't really allowed her friends—not that she'd ever have admitted that she wanted any—but she'd had a protocol droid. The last thing she remembered of Kaythree was his concerned, electronic voice when she'd collapsed under the strain of the Emperor's dying message. She'd woken up in a cell, accused of treason, with Ysanne Isard's goons watching over her. That cell was only a few floors down…

"Mara?"

She shook herself. "Sorry," she muttered. "Distracted. What's on today's priority list?"

Karrde lifted one perfectly manicured eyebrow. "Councilor Organa Solo invited us over for dinner? Remember?"

Mara froze. Right. Dinner. "Anything I need to do before then?"

"Nothing serious," Karrde replied. "I've already got Ghent working on a simple program that will allow the New Republic to make shipping requests and the members of the Smugglers' Alliance to receive them, based on the payment scale we agreed to. It should be ready before our formal contract is signed." He stood and walked to the office door and slid it shut, then took out one of his electronic scramblers and put it on the desk. "Other than that," he continued calmly, "the only important thing we should discuss is my most recent meeting with General Cracken."

She grimaced. Being at NRI's beck and call was her least favorite part of this whole arrangement. "Does NRI have any requests?"

"Of a sort." Karrde's tone became conspiratorial. "Apparently the HoloNet has been compromised."

Mara frowned. "Compromised? You mean someone has placed a bug on one of the network nodes?"

"I am afraid nothing so easily solved," Karrde frowned as he resumed his seat. "There's someone out there with the ability to slice the HoloNet more directly. Cracken tells me that we should assume that all HoloNet transmissions are potentially vulnerable to interception. Without adequate encryption, their contents could be captured. With adequate encryption, the slicer will still be able to get information like point of origin, destination, and potentially other data from the originating and receiving holocomm nodes." He shook his head. "I heard rumors of someone with such talents, many years ago. But it has been a decade at least since then."

Mara nodded slowly. She'd heard rumors herself, years before, that such things were possible. The HoloNet was widely viewed as effectively sacrosanct, impervious _except_ in the case of a compromised node (and even then, the only risk was to transmissions that went through that precise node). She'd always wondered if Palpatine had intentionally encouraged the growth of that belief to make it easier to track his enemies. She had a more pressing question under these circumstances, though. "Why did Cracken tell us this?"

"He has a mission for me," Karrde explained. "Two, actually." He slid a datapad towards Mara, who caught it as it fell over the edge of his desk towards her. "First, he has asked if he can borrow Ghent to work up an encrypt that can stand up to the best of Imperial Intelligence's codebreakers. Second, he's asked me to join General Bel Iblis in the Albrion sector, personally."

Some of this wasn't surprising. "You did tell Cracken about our little gift, then?" She knew he had intended to tell the General about the toy she and Karrde hoped to acquire—trying to keep it a secret from Cracken was a fool's errand anyway.

"I did," he nodded. He didn't elaborate, and she wasn't really expecting him to. If there was more she needed to know, he'd tell her. Otherwise, it was best to compartmentalize information as much as possible, and Karrde more than most liked to play his cards close to his well-tailored vest.

"When do you leave?"

"In a few days," he replied. "There are a few more things I want to get done here, first. I'm still hoping to have a signed contract with the New Republic before I depart. But we do have more important concerns for this evening. I don't intend to miss dinner with the Solos."

Mara sighed. "What should I wear?"

"Whatever you think appropriate, of course. Though I would leave the blasters at home. I'm quite sure Solo has more than enough of them for all of us, should the need arise." Karrde smiled. "Though I very much hope that it will not."


	10. Chapter Nine

The last time Mara had visited the Solo residence it had not been a casual occasion. She could still remember the sounds of blaster fire and desperation that had echoed through the halls of the Imperial Palace; the contingent of Imperial commandos who had been opposed by the New Republic's Palace Security. Garm Bel Iblis had been there too, proving his mettle as he led Palace Security in a desperate attempt to rescue Leia and her twins. She hadn't even thought about it before she threw herself into that particular fray, she remembered. She had just reacted, risking her life and her freedom to protect Leia Organa Solo and her infant children. The New Republic had, of course, rewarded her by throwing her in prison.

Karrde walked beside her, wearing his usual fitted white tunic, dark pants, and light blue cape. He knew how to make an impression—and he knew when not to make one. Tonight he was dressed to match the preconceived notions he wanted to continue to cultivate: refined, respectable, but still roguish. He knew as well as she did that the newsies would find out that representatives of the Smugglers' Alliance had dined with Councilor Leia Organa Solo and her family, and it was important that the face of the Smugglers' Alliance be exactly what both the Senate and the smugglers could accept. Alienating either would doom the enterprise.

Mara, therefore, had dressed similarly. She had considered, briefly, one of her formal or semi-formal gowns, but dismissed them as insufficiently roguish. She had also considered one of her normal, casual tunic/jumpsuit outfits that she usually wore aboard ship, but dismissed them as insufficiently formal. Reluctantly, she had chosen an emerald green tunic with a high collar. The tunic was loose enough to hide her forearm holster (which she had, even more reluctantly, left aboard the _Wild Karrde_ ), and paired well with her nondescript slacks. She finished the outfit with her combat boots.

Her lightsaber dangled from her belt brazenly, challenging any of the Palace Security guards they passed to object. None did. It wasn't quite a replacement for her holdout, but it was better than nothing.

She wasn't sure how to feel about the fact that it no longer seemed odd to her that the Imperials were gone. The security guards were more casual than their Stormtrooper predecessors had been, but no less attentive. They watched her with a mix of caution and respect that she could live with.

Karrde pressed the buzzer and they waited. And waited. Mara glanced at Karrde, reaching out with the Force as she checked for trouble—

The door was flung open with excess force, smacking into the wall with a bang. Han Solo stood in the doorway, a wailing Jaina Solo clutched under his arm and a greasy spatula in his other hand. He had a large red splotch on his tunic, which Mara belatedly realized was the result of a cooking mishap and not a blaster wound. "Karrde!" Han barked, his attention already moving on. "Open the door when the kid gets here!" he ordered the utterly bewildered pair of smugglers, heading back towards the kitchen at a brisk, slightly unsteady trot.

Karrde and Mara looked at each other. Mara's eyebrows both lifted slowly, while Karrde's expression slowly grew into a grin. "Not what I expected," Karrde said dryly.

Mara blinked, and she closed the door as they entered the apartment. It looked... different... without all the furniture turned over to block blaster fire.

"Do you need any help?" Karrde called, leaning to the side and peering towards the kitchen.

"No!" Han yelled back angrily, the sound of a baby wailing growing from that same direction. "Oh for the love of!" the ex-smuggler and husband to the New Republic's likely future Chief of State exclaimed around a muffled sizzling sound. There was another rustle of movement and Han came back, this time holding Jaina in both arms, the spatula left behind. "Here!" he growled, and thrust Jaina into Mara's arms. "You hold her while I salvage what's left of the Corellian sausages."

Mara didn't even have time to object before Han was gone again, cursing under his breath. She gaped at the crying face, moving her arms in a way that she hoped was the right way to hold a baby, then glared daggers after Han's retreating back. "I'm not a nursemaid!"

"You are today, sister!" Han yelled back, vanishing into the kitchen.

Mara tried to find the right way to arrange her hands but was terrified to move lest she drop the crying baby—the crying baby who seemed to have cried herself out, as her wails started to subside.

She didn't dare look at Karrde. If he was smirking even one-tenth the amount he probably was she might skewer him with her lightsaber, even if she had to manipulate it with the Force to do it without dropping Jaina. Karrde, probably knowing this, didn't tease her. He did step closer. "Here, Mara," he said, carefully helping her rearrange her arms to cradle the baby properly.

"How do _you_ know how to hold a baby?" she asked him, sparing him a glance as Jaina stopped crying and settled calmly against her chest. Mara peered down at the now contented Jaina, the baby's brown eyes blinking curiously up at Mara, her tiny hands awkwardly snatching at the buttons on Mara's tunic.

"Smugglers learn how to do all kinds of things."

Mara gasped softly as she realized the exploration wasn't just limited to Jaina's limbs. There was a gentle, weak prodding through the Force, unformed and inchoate but definitely there. "Oh," she said, swallowing and holding the baby closer. She'd known the twins were Force strong, known that C'baoth had wanted them for exactly that reason…

She let Karrde lead her to one of the couches in the living space and sat down as Jaina's explorations got a bit more active.

"Do you want me to hold her instead," Karrde asked, sounding amused. She would make him pay for this later… and Solo too, for that matter.

"She's stopped crying," Mara pointed out. "Would moving her be a bad idea?"

"I suspect she likes you more than she would like me, so… perhaps," Karrde replied, his audible amusement only growing.

She glared at him, but Jaina tugging on her tunic brought her attention back to the baby.

"Where's Threepio—" Winter hurried into the room from the hallway that led to the bedrooms, stopping short as she saw Jaina and Mara. "Oh," the Alderaanian said, blinking a few times. "Well, that explains where Jaina got to."

"Do you need any help, Winter?" Karrde asked with his normal, polished politeness.

This was _not_ like any dinner party Mara had ever attended before.

"I believe you're providing the most important help right now," Winter murmured, her expression quirking into a smile. "The Princess should be back soon but she was delayed at the palace, Chewbacca needed to do some vital repairs on the _Millennium Falcon_ —" her tone suggested polite skepticism about how 'vital' the repairs to the _Falcon_ truly were "—and Luke should be here any minute now—"

There was a door chime. "Karrde, will you get that!" Han yelled from the kitchen.

Winter was already moving towards the door. She wasn't wearing one of her usual long gowns, but a far more functional plain blue shirt and pair of slacks, though her hair was nonetheless up in an elegant Alderaanian twist.

There was an electronic greeting and Artoo-Detoo rolled determinedly into the room, followed by Skywalker. "Good evening, Winter," he greeted her.

"Luke," Winter smiled. "Master Trade Karrde and Miss Jade are already here, keeping an eye on Jaina for me." She closed the door behind him.

Skywalker's eyes found Mara's, and a slow smile crossed his lips as he watched Jaina tugging weakly at her tunic.

Mara could feel her cheeks start to burn. She lifted Jaina up and was going to hand the toddler to Karrde, but Jaina's brown eyes blinked accusingly at her. With a sigh she placed Jaina back down. Jaina giggled.

Skywalker made his way over to them, still smiling. "Not a word, Skywalker," she hissed at him. "Not a single, blasted word."

"I wouldn't dare," he replied with an insouciant smirk. "If I did, the next time you pull a toy blaster on me it might be loaded with something really dangerous, like hot sauce or custard."

* * *

Leia was late, as usual; her hurried footsteps past Palace Security at this hour were no longer a surprise to anyone. Mon Mothma continued to rely heavily on her, and Leia was one of the few members of the New Republic Inner Council who was genuinely trusted by all the New Republic's disparate factions. Consequently, her portfolio of responsibilities steadily continued to grow; just as consequently, she was rarely home in time for dinner. As was typical, she arrived well after dinner was ready; the heady smells from the kitchen stirring hunger she'd let go too long unfulfilled. Winter usually was responsible for making sure she ate while she was at the office, but the demands of dinner prep had sent her home early to help Han with cooking and watching the kids, and Leia had not eaten since lunch (much too long ago, now).

Mara and Karrde were already there and she greeted them quickly. They were sitting with the rest of her family; Han was tending to the kitchen and keeping the food warm and ready, but Winter, Chewbacca, and Luke were all sitting and talking with the two members of the Smugglers' Alliance over an expansive array of appetizers. She wished Lando had been there too, then all the (non-Noghri) members of their Wayland team would have been present. Had she invited Lando she suspected he would've come all the way from Nkllon, too.

When she had been a child, her father had made a point to host gatherings with his close friends and confidantes, as well as his work acquaintances, on a regular basis. They were vital to maintain the tight sense of camaraderie that allowed a community to flourish and thrive. But Bail Organa had possessed an army of servants and seemingly endless wealth, the splendor of Alderaan at its isolationist, pacifistic height. Leia and Han were far from poor, and Winter was worth an army of servants all on her own, but between Leia's responsibilities in the New Republic government (which often felt like _all_ the responsibilities of the New Republic's government…) and the comparative sparseness of their resources, Leia did not host these events as often as her father had. And Jacen and Jaina complicated things.

 _Still, how often are all of you going to be on Coruscant at once? Karrde will be leaving again, and you never know when Luke will be called away to put a fire out somewhere. And Han is Han_ — _as much as he'd rather be home with the kids, you never know when the New Republic will find a new way to demand his service, Leia,_ she reminded herself. _You can't miss these opportunities._

She went down the hallway to change out of her work clothes and into something more appropriate for a casual gathering, and stopped as she saw the small, domed form of Artoo-Detoo in the hall. The droid's photoreceptor turned to look at her, and she swore the droid was slouching. He whistled at her sadly.

"What is it, Artoo?" she asked him, frowning.

He whistled at her, and she fumbled in her pockets for her translation device. "You can't find Threepio?" she frowned, suddenly concerned. Reaching out with the Force, she felt for danger and found none. "That's odd—"

Wait. Han and Winter preparing for dinner. Two toddlers underfoot. No, Threepio going missing wasn't that odd. She stopped by the hall closet and pulled it open.

Sure enough, Threepio was on the floor in a crumpled heap, the lights of his eyes dark. She bit her lip to hide a laugh, then reached down and pulled the droid to his feet and reached behind him to switch him back on. The droid's eyes flickered as they lit, and the droid started. "Oh, my word," he stumbled, looking around. "I think something must have happened."

Artoo whistled cheerfully, rocking back and forth on two of his wheels.

"Artoo-Detoo? Are you here already? Oh dear, I must have been deactivated." Threepio looked from side to side, stiffening with sudden concern. "Has anyone seen Mistress Jaina?"

"She's fine, Threepio," Leia soothed the droid. "Why don't you and Artoo catch up while we have dinner? You can recharge in the back."

"But Mistress Leia, I haven't set the table yet. Master Han still needs to decide which style of dining arrangement he would prefer to use for the event tonight. I suggested the Chandrilan of course, as that's most appropriate for—"

Artoo blatted at Threepio, turned and started rolling down the hall.

"It's alright, Threepio. Winter took care of it already."

"Oh," Threepio wilted. "Well, very well then." He turned and ambled after Artoo, leaving Leia hiding a laugh and wondering what exactly the protocol droid had done to end up unceremoniously shoved into the closet.

* * *

Mara was shocked to find that while Han's plating left something to be desired relative to Woonseer's, the food was flavorful, plentiful, and creative _._ Han had made both a Corellian and an Alderaanian dish (the latter with Winter's help), and seemed to delight in Karrde and Mara's clear surprise. " _What, did you really think I wouldn't be just as great a cook as I am a smuggler?"_ he'd quite smugly proclaimed, before making a bold attack run on the vicinity of Jacen's mouth with a soft plastoid spoon shaped like an X-Wing. Leia and Luke had both rolled their eyes.

With the main meal concluded, Mara found a seat out of the way in the Solos' living space and quietly observed the chaos from behind a Corellian Sweetcream with a dusting of chocolate. She had understated when she had thought that this was unlike any dinner party she had ever attended before. It bore no resemblance to the staid, formal affairs of the Imperial Coruscanti nobility that she'd attended as Countess Claria, or even the much less stilted but still quite socially-coded events she and Karrde had attended with the various mercantile groups they'd aggregated under the Smugglers' Alliance umbrella. More than anything it reminded her of her time as a barmaid on Phorliss, with the same constant low-level chaos and casual camaraderie.

Karrde was enjoying it quite a bit, she could tell. There was a difference between Karrde's polite-but-not-quite-genuine enjoyment and Karrde's actual, genuine enjoyment of a social engagement, and from the crinkle of his cheeks and the small smile that tugged at the corners of his mouth he was definitely experiencing the latter. Jaina and Jacen were undeterrable terrors on two pairs of wobbly legs and Karrde watched them, chatting idly with Solo and Leia and sipping a glass of green wine, likely an early vintage from New Alderaan.

Mara found herself again wondering just how much of the manipulation was on purpose. Leia had, quite effectively, drawn Karrde (and herself) into her web of associates—and, Mara admitted to herself in the quiet solitude of her own mind, Leia had become their friend. In so doing Leia had cemented the bond between the New Republic and the Smugglers' Alliance, and quite possibly given herself a new tool to use in negotiations.

But normal people didn't think like that, she berated herself gently. She didn't get any sense of manipulation or machination from Leia, just quiet happiness.

 _No_ , she thought decisively, watching Leia lean into Han's side, the smuggler's arm wrapping securely around her waist. _Leia might be Vader's daughter, but she isn't Vader. Not in any way that matters_.

A sense of longing started to gather in her chest and she didn't know where it was coming from, and she knew even less how to handle it. She reached out in the Force, wondering where Skywalker had gotten to, got a sense of him in the other room, felt a hint of… concern? She sat up a bit, but feeling her reach out to him, the Jedi reached back. It was a problem, whatever it was, but it wasn't a problem for right now, his emotions said. Reassurance tinged with affection brushed her mind. _It's nothing urgent, Mara,_ it whispered. Luke's mental voice clung to the first syllable of her name, as his voice always did when he spoke it, quiet and reverent.

Distracted as she was by the mental touch, Leia settling down on the couch next to her caught her by surprise. Leia offered her a smile, then laughed as Jaina barreled into the couch at knee-level, crawling awkwardly up towards her mother. Leia reached forward and picked her daughter up with both hands before settling Jaina in her lap. The child watched her mother with one of her big, innocent, confident smiles, then looked at Mara and gave her one too.

"That's Mara," Leia said soothingly.

"Ma-ma?" Jaina babbled, looking at Leia and then at Mara.

Mara found herself utterly transfixed by the little girl. _I saved her,_ she realized, a swell of emotion swirling in her. _I saved her from C'baoth. I saved her from the Empire._ She swallowed hard. _I saved her from maybe being me._

"Mar-ra," Leia spelled out the two syllables slowly, holding Jaina to keep her from toddling off the couch.

On the other side of the room, Mara heard quiet baby laughter. She looked over and was astonished to see Karrde holding Jacen like it was the most natural thing in the world, smiling and talking amiably with Han and Chewbacca.

"Ma-ma?" Jaina tried again.

"Mar- _ra_ ," Leia replied patiently, emphasizing the second syllable. "She has trouble with the 'r' sound," Leia murmured to Mara.

Jaina blinked, first at her mother, then at Mara. Mara gasped softly as Jaina reached out in the Force again; she heard Leia gasp as she too realized what Jaina was doing. Mara and Leia's eyes met as Jaina toddled across the couch and stumbled and fell into Mara's lap. "Ra-ra?" Jaina babbled.

Leia laughed. "Good enough."

Jaina climbed towards Mara's more determinedly and collapsed against Mara's chest, giggling. Mara held her with both hands, breath caught in her chest. "Ra-ra," Jaina said again, this time with a hint of her mother's imperiousness.

"Sure," Mara managed. "But no one else gets to call me that, understood?"

Leia watched Jaina crawl over Mara fondly. "She likes you."

"I…" Mara looked over at Leia, sure she probably looked completely befuddled. "I think I like her, too."

Leia just smiled. "I won't tell anyone if you don't." She watched Jaina and Mara for a while, then looked around with a small frown. "Where's Luke?"

Mara nodded in the general direction of Leia's office. "Artoo came in and said he'd received a HoloNet message," she replied, grappling gently with Jaina. "He went into your office to listen to it." She glanced in that direction herself, feeling Skywalker's mild tension and concern as his emotions shifted to decisiveness. Whatever the message had been about, Skywalker had just made a decision about what he was going to do about it. But there was no sense of imminence from him. "It doesn't seem to be an immediate problem," she reassured Leia.

Leia watched her pensively. "Did you get a chance to talk with my brother about what's bothering him?"

Mara allowed Jaina to draw her attention, offering the toddler a small, reassuring smile. The baby smiled back. But that was just a transient distraction, and not a sufficient justification to avoid answering Leia's question. "We've talked," she demurred, offering Leia a glance.

"And you don't want to talk about it?" Leia probed gently. She reached out to help Mara keep the crawling Jaina from sliding back onto the floor.

Mara was reluctant to say anything more. It wasn't her place to insert herself into Skywalker and Leia's relationship, even if Leia was the one who had invited her involvement. And she doubted Skywalker would appreciate her sharing his reservations about the relationship between Jedi and New Republic with anyone, including (or especially) his sister. That was his place, not hers.

"Not really," she agreed apologetically. "But I think he's about ready to talk about it."

Leia nodded, picking up Jaina and hugging her. She offered Mara a small smile. "Family," she said ruefully.

 _I wouldn't know,_ Mara thought. It was a thought that had occurred to her on and off over the years, especially recently, but never with the full weight of sorrow that came with it now. She looked around the room, watching the Solo family—Han and Chewie talking with Karrde while they all entertained Jacen; Winter sitting on the opposite couch, watching the chaos—she sent Mara a small smile when she caught her looking; Leia and Jaina. Skywalker, whose Force presence was closer now—she glanced over towards the door to Leia's office and caught him standing in the doorway, watching the chaos much as she was. The gaze lingered.

Mara could feel Leia watching her and broke the contact.

Luke walked over and knelt by Winter, speaking quietly. Whatever it was he said made the normally staid woman illuminate with a relieved smile, then squeeze Luke's hand. Mara could read her lips, though she was too far away to hear the words spoken: _thank you._ Luke patted her shoulder and headed towards Leia, Mara, and Jaina. He settled on the arm of the couch nearest Mara.

"Is everything all right?" asked Leia, her expression concerned.

Luke took a breath, then shrugged. "I'm not really sure," he admitted. "I got a comm from Wedge, and I'm going to need to head out to join him for a while, I think."

Mara's lips tightened. Skywalker was leaving? "Trouble?" she asked.

"Wedge lost a few X-wings in his last engagement. Oh, he's fine, Tycho's fine," he hastened to add at Leia's suddenly pained expression. "All his pilots are fine, even Wes. I just told Winter that Tycho sends his love. But—" he frowned "—he said they ran into a Force-adept armed with a lightsaber, fighting on the other side."

Both Leia and Mara straightened at that. Jaina, sensing the sudden tension, looked around fearfully. Leia soothed her gently. Mara could feel Leia trying to split her attention, sending reassurance to Jaina while paying full attention to Luke. "I didn't know the Empire had any other Dark Jedi," Leia said.

"I'm not sure it does," Luke replied thoughtfully. He turned to Mara. "I suppose we know why I wanted to practice sparring now," he mused.

"Never assume," Mara cautioned him. Her voice softened despite her best efforts. "When do you leave?"

"I think I'll pack my X-wing tonight and set off for Albrion Sector in the morning," Luke replied.

Mara glanced over at Karrde, then back to Skywalker. Karrde's upcoming movements should be kept secret, but having Skywalker along would definitely be helpful on Rendili… "I have a better idea," she said. "Karrde is heading that way himself in a few days. Instead of hibernating in that cockpit of yours, maybe catch a ride with him instead. It'll be more comfortable and you won't lose that much time; I'm sure the _Wild Karrde_ has a faster hyperdrive than your X-wing."

Skywalker offered her a grin. "Think it'll be a more passenger-friendly journey this time? Or is Karrde going to knock me out and lock me up again?"

"Don't tempt him," Mara shot back archly. "He still carries Ysalamiri aboard."

* * *

Leia watched Luke and Mara, desperately hiding her smile. Luke departing Coruscant to rejoin the Rogues was hardly good news—she didn't get to spend enough time with her brother (or her husband, or her kids) as it was—but she'd gotten used to the reality of Luke being a Jedi just as he (and Han) had gotten used to the reality of _her_ being the engine of the New Republic.

She excused herself, leaving Jaina in Luke's arms as he and Mara bantered. She slid into Han's arms and let them wrap around her. "Winter is putting Jacen to bed?" she asked.

"Mmhmm," Han swayed gently with her in his arms. "You were late from work today."

She sighed. "Don't start, Han," she chastised him, tucking her head against his chest and hugging him back. "Besides, when I got back I found Threepio stuffed into the hall closet. _Again._ "

Han snorted. "Goldenrod wanted to know which set of our formal silverware we'd be using, and if we were going to set the table using Alderaanian, Coruscanti, or Chandrilan table etiquette. _Then_ he failed to keep an eye on Jaina and she was underfoot in the kitchen at the most _delicate_ part of the cooking process, and his trying to catch her was only making things worse." He shrugged, kissing the top of her head gently. "So... I switched him off and shoved him into the closet."

Leia snickered softly, turning her head. Winter had come back from the bedrooms and was attempting to disentangle Jaina from Luke and Mara, while the two Force users talked quietly with Karrde about their upcoming travel plans. The look of contentment on Luke's face while he watched Mara's utterly baffled incompetence as she tried to get Jaina to go with Winter made Leia want to cry. "He looks so happy," she whispered to her husband.

"Yeah," Han murmured back smugly. "I'm not surprised. He's been smitten with Jade since they met, and _that_ was while she was still threatening to murder him." He swayed with his wife gently. "You should've seen his face at the Katana battle after she got shot down."

Winter finally managed to collect Jaina into her arms. Jaina was unhappy about this development, and Leia reached out in the Force to her daughter, sending waves of reassurance and love. She was surprised when she felt not just one, but two other similar projections of emotional reassurance, and bit her lip and snuggled closer into Han's chest. "She's still coming to terms with her past, I think."

"That's not surprising either," Han replied. "I know a dozen ex-Imperials who've been grappling with their Imperial service for years, and none of _them_ was a personal servant for ol' wrinkles himself." He drew back from his wife and looked down. "Do you want me to talk to her about it?" he asked carefully.

"Maybe," Leia mused. "There are a few people I can ask."

"But none with my guile," Han said with a cocky grin.

She laughed. "No, none with your guile."

Han winked at her, releasing the embrace. "Hey kid!" Han called to the other side of the room, interrupting Luke's discussion with Mara and Karrde. "Come give me a hand with the cleanup will you?"

Luke opened his mouth to explain that he was busy, but Mara stopped him with a hand. She stood. "You two finish planning. I'll help," she said, moving across the kitchen to help Han collect the dishes. He and Leia watched her curiously and she glared at him as she stacked three plates on her forearm. "What?"

"You know how to do this properly? I wouldn't have thought the Emperor would bother teaching one of his agents how to do anything as domestic as clearing dishes," Han said, putting skepticism into his voice that Leia recognized as feigned.

Mara rolled her eyes. "It's been a long time since Palpatine taught me anything," she said witheringly, stacking another plate on her forearm. "I know what I'm doing."

Leia snickered softly, leaning in to kiss Han. "You old scoundrel," she whispered against his cheek.

"Don't you know it," he whispered back, drawing her in for a long lingering kiss—distracting her briefly before dropping her onto the softest pillow of the settee. "Nice to know I can still sweep you off your feet," he murmured against her lips, then abruptly withdrew, leaving her sunken deeply into the cushions.

"Nerf-herder," Leia muttered, clawing herself out of the comfortable upholstery. Once free, she moved to talk with Luke and Karrde while Han guided Mara—dishes now piled high on her arm—into the kitchen.

* * *

Mara could feel Skywalker's presence even after he was out of eyesight; feel Leia's gentle amusement at the sight of Mara Jade doing kitchen chores, and Jaina and Jacen's childlike exhaustion as Winter collected them for bed.

It took a moment before Han was comfortable with her in what was quite obviously _his_ space, but after he saw her work Han relaxed. He let her wash, taking for himself the task of drying the dishes and putting them back. "You're pretty good at this," he probed as she let old muscle memory take over.

Mara handed Han a clean dish to dry. "Phorliss," she explained. "After Palpatine died Isard locked me up. I broke out of the Imperial Palace and escaped Coruscant, and to lay low I took a job there as a waitress." She handed him another dish. "What's your excuse?"

"Hey, Leia and Winter are busy running the galaxy, and would _you_ trust Threepio to do dishes?" he retorted. "Besides, when I was a kid the only good days were spent in a kitchen with a stubborn old Wookiee. How long were you a waitress?"

Mara thought about it for a moment. "A few weeks.. maybe a month. I would've stayed longer," she added thoughtfully. "It was the most settled I felt until I signed on with Karrde."

She could feel Han's eyes on her, hear his curiosity. "Why'd you leave?"

Her hand tightened on the dish she was holding. She forced it to relax. "Gorb—the bar's owner—wasn't paying the local Black Sun grunts the way they wanted. One night they came in and shot up the place."

Han nodded knowingly, his expression grim. "Sounds like something Black Sun would do. They weren't very civilized after Xizor's death." He took a dish from her, dried it, and slotted it away. "Or before it for that matter. What'd you do?"

Her green eyes flashed. "I killed them. Then I found their boss, and I killed him too." She scrubbed the last dish with more ferocity than normal. "It was my duty. Restoring just a tiny bit of justice to an increasingly unjust universe." Gorb and Jorshmin's faces flashed in her memory. They'd taken her in, they'd made her feel welcome. She had started to feel safe, and comfortable, and then they were dead, and _she_ was the Emperor's Hand.

She could feel Skywalker's spiking concern, his offer of emotional reassurance and empathy and affection. Mara couldn't decide if she wanted to wrap it around herself like a shawl or shrug it off like an unhappy d'oemir peak bear.

"Well," Han said, putting the dish away. "Next time, you don't have to do it alone."

She looked at him in surprise. "You're not going to chastise me?"

Han poked himself in the chest. "Who do you think you're talking to? I may not have been the Emperor's Hand, but I was Fleet long enough to get a commission, and then I lived the Fringe life too, sweetheart. I know what it's like to want to shove a blaster down someone's throat, and I know what it's like to _do_ it, too. But I always had someone watching my back and keeping me… if not honest, then at least some kind of ethical." He leaned against the long kitchen counter. "You're not on your own anymore, sister. Like it or not, you're part of the clan now."

She stared at him in astonishment. "I don't understand you Rebels at all," she muttered.

Han grinned at her. "Haven't you heard? We're a _New Republic_ now." He grinned more broadly. "And don't tell anyone, but my wife runs the whole show," he whispered conspiratorially. He puffed up his chest proudly. "In my book, that makes her husband pretty damn prestigious, don't you think?"

"Han?" Leia's voice called from the other room. "Han, we're having trouble getting Jaina and Jacen to go to sleep."

"Speaking of which," Han said with a grin, "duty calls." He waved at the kitchen. "Don't worry about the rest of the cleanup, I'll do it when I get back." He trotted out of the kitchen, leaving her watching him with a bemused expression.

It took Mara another few minutes to finish the cleanup, minutes she spent wondering what Palpatine would find more infuriating: the Emperor's Hand having dinner with Luke Skywalker and Leia Organa Solo in the Imperial Palace, or the Emperor's Hand doing the very domestic chores of the post-dinner party cleanup. Either way, his imagined expression was priceless, almost as valuable as having him out of her head.

 _How did I end up here, again? Of all the places in the whole universe, how did_ I _end up_ here _?_

There was a whistle and Artoo-Detoo rolled into the kitchen. The astromech stopped suddenly at the sight of her cleaning the stove, his dome swiveling to look down into the living room, then back to her.

"What," she growled at him. "Have you never seen someone cleaning a kitchen before?"

The droid warbled nervously, placing all three wheels down on the kitchen floor and backing slowly back into the hallway.

"Wait," Mara said, and the droid froze. "Come here," she waved at him.

Artoo made a wary sound, but apparently was either brave enough to obey the order, or _not_ brave enough to try to flee. Mara knelt down and looked the droid in his photoreceptor. "I need you to do me a favor."


	11. Chapter Ten

Leonia Tavira had her arms crossed across her chest, her expression hard and cold. It reminded Vorru of Ysanne Isard at her angriest, but Vorru actually found Tavira less scary simply because she wasn't nearly as insane. She was just angry and wanted to unleash that anger on a convenient target. "Was it worth it?" she hissed furiously at him, slamming her palms down on the boardroom table in the Star Destroyer's conference lounge. "Was one Drall worth two squadrons of my fighters and crippling damage to my ship?"

It was an exaggeration on her part, but only a mild one. _Invidious_ wasn't crippled, but it was also far from battle ready. With its starboard shields now totally gone, and half its starboard armament out of commission, the ship was quite vulnerable. Had the X-wings—which Tavira's sensors people had belatedly identified as Rogue Squadron, only infuriating her even more (and offering him a moment's concern, but surely it was just a coincidence that the Rogues were in-sector)—been armed with a full load of proton torpedoes, they might have been able to cripple _Invidious_ beyond repair.

Pointing that out to Tavira would be supremely unwise, however. "You know he is," Vorru replied soothingly. "He's the key to the entire plan."

Tavira slammed her hands on the table again, the glimmering surface vibrating from the impact. Vorru winced—that had to hurt. "He's old and feeble and well past his prime. What if he _can't_ do what we need him to?"

Vorru's expression and voice hardened. "He can. I've known Eliezer for a long time, nearly twice as long as _you_ have been alive. I know what he can do and what he can't do better than anyone alive or dead—better than Cracken, better than Isard." He lifted a finger warningly, his voice growing soft and menacing. Had anyone else been in the room, he wouldn't have dared—Tavira might feel compelled to have him killed just to maintain her facade of superiority—but alone, he could challenge her the way she deserved. "Do not underestimate him, and do not underestimate me," he growled. "Palpatine feared me once, and you would do well to remember that."

"Palpatine," Tavira glared back savagely, her purple eyes flashing with fury, "beat you and locked you away on Kessel to rot."

Vorru smiled, a small, vicious smile that he'd learned in the Spice Mines. "And do you think that makes me less dangerous, Leonia? Or more."

She glared at him, refusing to back down, but he could see the flicker of respect in her gaze. They stared at each other evenly.

 _You have her hooked_ , he thought. _Now she'll accept you as an equal, which means she will have you killed unless she has need of you. Time to remind her of your value._ Vorru allowed his smile to become much more genial, his hands sliding back along the table until they settled next to his sides. "But, I acknowledge that your losses have been great, greater than either of us had anticipated. Perhaps you would allow me to offer you proper recompense?"

Tavira straightened, folding her arms back across her chest. "Go on," she said with a scowl.

 _You have her._ Vorru brushed some invisible lint off his Moff's uniform. "I have a number of former associates within the Empire. Some are in positions of considerable authority, even. One in particular has access to everything we will need to restore _Invidious_ to prime condition. A full, proper Imperial fleet yard, well-stocked with supplies and men."

"And why," Tavira asked coldly, but he could see the flicker of interest in her eyes, "would they agree to refit _Invidious_? This is not an Imperial vessel any longer."

"Ah, but it is," Vorru replied. "If it were to be restored to the Starfleet roster and put under the command of an active Imperial authority. It would hardly be the first time a Warlord has returned to the fold." He held up a hand, forestalling her objections. "It would only be a formality," he said calmingly. "We would accept no orders, and continue to operate independently."

Tavira's eyes narrowed. "And what do you want in exchange for this?" she asked.

Vorru smiled. "Nothing, of course. We agreed to a partnership. That partnership cannot be fulfilled unless each of us offers the other all the aid we have. This I can offer you. All I ask is you continue to fulfill your end of our bargain after I have delivered _Invidious_ to the repair yards."

She pursed her lips together. Vorru could see the wheels spinning behind her eyes. When they had struck their bargain, he had asked for much, but in exchange he had promised much. So much that it was nearly unbelievable, even.

"I _will_ fulfill my end of the bargain," Vorru said confidently. Her eyes narrowed, fury and avarace competing for dominance behind them. He felt his lips twitch, yearning to smile, but resisted the impulse. _You have her,_ he thought again, sure of it now.

"Where are we going?"

Vorru did smile now. "Linuri, in the Doldur Sector," he said. "It's the last major Imperial fleet base in the galactic southeast. The Moff in charge there owes me," he paused, clasping his hands together and adopting a conspiratorial tone, "more than a few favors." His tone shifted, turning darker. "And if he chooses not to honor them, I have blackmail material that would end him."

Tavira straightened her uniform, still scowling. "Fine. I'll have us underway." She pointed at him, her eyes narrowing. "This had better be worth it, Vorru," she hissed, then turned and swept out the door like a stormcloud on a swift Tralus breeze.

He watched her go, quite satisfied with his day's work. He turned his attention to his next task, and his expression darkened with fury provoked by the memory of betrayal. _Oh Disra,_ he thought to himself, _you are going to be_ so _unhappy to see me again._

But before he could see to making proper repayment for past slights, he had a friend to see. One who too had suffered because of Vorru's imprisonment.

* * *

The quarters Vorru had procured for Eliezer were dark when the ex-Moff entered. He could hear the elderly Drall breathing; heard the slight relaxation of that breathing as the Drall realized it was Vorru who had entered. "Vorru," the alien said, a distinct note of relief in his voice.

Vorru turned on the light. Eliezer had been average height for a Drall, but his posture was slightly hunched with age, reducing him to a little under one meter. His fur was a deep, reddish-brown, spotted white around the mouth and whiskers, giving him the appearance of a beard. The lack of physical exercise combined with age had rendered him physically feeble.

Vorru just hoped that did not extend to his mental faculties as well.

He could remember the younger Eliezer; older than Vorru, easily, but still in his physical and mental prime. Energetic, ambitious, lured by greed and patriotism in equal measure. "Do you remember how we met?" Vorru asked.

The Drall laughed, his beady eyes closing briefly as his claws stroked at the arms of his chair. "Is this a test of my identity, Vorru?" he asked, the sound darkly amused. "Do you think that Cracken would go so far to hide a spy in your service?"

Vorru just smiled. "No," he replied. "Oh, I have no doubt that Cracken would, if it were within his abilities. But I am reasonably certain he does not yet know that I escaped from Kessel, nor that I had discovered your HoloNet messages and would be coming for you. Unless you know differently?"

"No," the Drall agreed, seemingly enjoying the comfortable armchair which had come standard-issue with the room. "Cracken was the cleverest of my keepers in many ways, but his obsessions with secrecy and morals hindered him from properly surveilling my activities."

"One lasting weakness of the Republic, both Old and New," Vorru agreed. "The moral demands of its philosophy."

"Hardly the Republic's most fatal flaw," Eliezer riposted, and Vorru smiled. That was more like it, he thought. That sounded like the Eliezer he remembered. "But to answer your question, I did a job for a Smuggler. Jorj Car'das' outfit, if you remember him. Nothing too complicated or difficult. What I didn't know," Eliezer's beady eyes leveled on Vorru, "was that, as with every smuggling outfit that operated in or around Corellia, you were their silent partner, and privy to the details of that job."

"Car'das and I had an understanding, yes." Vorru drew the desk chair out from its place against the wall and sat in it, half-facing Eliezer. "The standard agreement. I agreed to allow him to use Corellia as a base of operations and safe haven, a place where he could safely fence his goods for a fair price. In exchange, he kept me up to date on affairs and gave me a cut of the profits." He smiled. "Those were good years."

"Hmmmm," Eliezer agreed, the sound approving. "Good years for Corellia as well. Safe from the overreach of the Old Republic, then safe from the talons of the Empire. Good years."

Those years were long past, now, disrupted by Palpatine's decision to eliminate Vorru as a potential rival and bring the ever-restless worlds of the Corellia system to heel, both Vorru's and Eliezer's among them.

"Care for a game of dejarik?" Vorru asked. He turned to one of the cabinets and fetched from it a portable dejarik table. In times past, he and Eliezer had played many a game; playing again would give him a good sense of the Drall's mental fitness. He set the table between them and switched the board on.

He was gratified when Eliezer made the first move quickly. He took a moment to counter, and watched as Eliezer peered at the board. The Drall took his time, which would have concerned Vorru if he did not see the calculating poise behind Eliezer's beady eyes.

Relief settled over him and he smiled. Eliezer may be physically feeble, but he had no more slowed than Vorru had himself.

The game took some time to complete, and Vorru found himself genuinely engrossed in the competition. He won of course, but it was a near thing.

The Drall sighed in annoyance as he settled deeper into his chair, his measured gaze now on Vorru. Vorru realized that the game had not just been his opportunity to test Eliezer; it had also been Eliezer's opportunity to test him. "You got me out to do a job," Eliezer prompted.

"I did," Vorru replied, smiling. "As much as I like you, Eliezer, we both know that the effort of breaking you out was greater than the value of your company alone."

The Drall laughed, though the sound turned into a hacking, awkward sounding cough. The furred alien clenched his taloned-hand into a fist and pounded his chest for a moment until it passed. "I wouldn't think so. And you never were the sentimental type." He unclenched his hand and stroked his claws over the arm of his chair slowly, the soft sound of sharp nails sliding over inexpensive leather.

"I need two things," Vorru said, sitting up. His eyes bored into the Drall's. "Two things I am reasonably sure only you can provide."

"Go on," the Drall replied, his eyes narrowing.

"I need you to use your HoloNet infiltration skills to extract information for me. Eavesdropping on classified communications, both Republican and Imperial. Tracking ships through hyperspace, that kind of thing."

Eliezer laughed. "Yes, of course," he replied. "And that would be quite enough." His voice grew quieter, arrogant. "No one else can do that for you, because I have husbanded those secrets very, very carefully. But I know you, Vorru. I can _taste_ the ambition. There's something else you have planned… something dangerous. Something rewarding. Something challenging." His claws dug into the leather and tugged, and there was a tearing sound. "I am old for a Drall, older than you are for a human. I had not expected a true challenge again." The Drall leaned forward in the chair, his eyes gleaming. "Tell me."

Vorru pulled out a chair across from Eliezer, sat down across from him, looked him dead in the eyes like an equal, and told him. He could see the Drall's ambition grow with his avarice. Even if they gave Tavira her promised cut, there would be more than enough left over to pursue _all_ their ambitions.

More than enough.

* * *

The Tevas-kaar watched from his normal guard position on _Invidious'_ bridge. The ship's bridge windows swirled with the light of hyperspace, but it would not be long before their arrival at Linuri now. Further along the elevated bridge floor, Moff Vorru was providing instructions to the _Invidious'_ new communications officer. He was about the same age as Navarian had been, but wore nervousness of youth and inexperience. No doubt he, along with the rest of the bridge crew, noted Navarian's rather pronounced absence.

He would have refused to execute the man himself, had he been asked; such was below his honor. It didn't matter; Tavira had been more than happy to do it herself.

The Admiral, or Moff, or Pirate-Lord, or whatever title she was styling herself with now, was clearly unhappy. The angry glances she shot at Vorru regularly were proof enough of that, as were her lingering gazes at the _Invidious'_ blackened hull, stretched out below the ship's bridge. _Invidious_ was her weapon and her toy, cherished and needed in equal measure. Her need to rend and exact vengeance had not been fully sated, but he knew from experience that it would fade—though never fully burn out.

 _At least she is true to what she is,_ he thought. _She is no silent schemer, like Vorru is. There is honor in that, of a sort._

"Reversion in five," drawled the officer overseeing the helm.

Tavira and Vorru were talking quietly now, discussing and finalizing their plans. The Tevas-kaar stepped closer to maintain the proper distance, which conveniently also took him within easy earshot, even without using a Force enhancement. Though coming close was not necessary at this moment, as the volume of their conversation grew.

"—will tell Moff Disra that we have engaged the Rebellion on multiple occasions and require aid to continue our campaign," Tavira was saying energetically. "It has the benefit of even being true… Disra will then demand to see our credentials and place us at the bottom of the Linuri maintenance list." Her expression soured. "Which could force us to wait weeks or even months."

Vorru bowed his head deferentially. "I believe I can see to it that _Invidious_ is moved to the top of that list, Moff Tavira," he replied. The crew all used her military rank, but Vorru used the civilian title likely because, in the old Imperial hierarchy, Moffs always outranked Admirals. Since Vorru was using the title himself, he had to offer it to Tavira as well, or he would in effect be claiming to be her superior. The title, combined with his obvious deference, were a salve to Tavira's ego.

 _And Vorru may be a schemer,_ the Tevas-kaar thought silently, his face hot under his white d'oemir bear mask, _but at least he has the brains to scheme properly. And he is secure enough not to need his ego constantly catered to._ His respect for the man ticked up. Maybe Vorru would live longer than he'd originally expected.

"I will need a secure location for communications," Vorru said. "You can listen in, of course," he continued before Tavira could object, "but it is important that Disra not know that you are listening, and that no one else hears anything I have to say to him." Vorru smiled thinly. "The threat of exposure is only effective at inducing behavior _before_ it has been carried out, after all."

Tavira considered, then nodded. "You may use my office," she agreed. "I haven't had much use for it since I took command of _Invidious,_ but it has a full communications suite suitable for any officer of flag rank."

"Excellent," Vorru smiled.

"Reversion in one!" called the helm.

"Shall we, Moff Tavira?" asked Vorru.

Her answering smile was humorless and hungry.

* * *

The Moff's office in Kinham, the largest city on the Imperial-held world of Linuri, was not as opulent as it ought to have been. The fine furniture, crafted painstakingly out of Cardooine Fijisi wood, would have been adequate for a mid-rim Moff's office during the height of the Empire, but the artistry was substandard compared to some of the offices that Vilim Disra had served in. And Linuri was a poor replacement for the world that ought to have been his sector capital, Druckenwell. Linuri was prettier and more picturesque, but that was about all it had to offer. There was little native industry for him to exploit and little trade to tax. Linuri's sole appeal was the Imperial sector base—the very last major Imperial fleet base in the galactic southeast.

 _Why did I have to get Doldur sector?_ Disra thought sourly, looking out the massive office windows and down upon the city below. A lake stretched out into the distance, with small sailing ships—a local obsession—gently gliding through the calm waves. It was a nice city, he thought, but not a wealthy one. Not by the standards of an Imperial Moff. And with the Imperial base here, it did not even get the tourism revenue it ought, leaving a content, quiet, pleasant little city that offered nothing else. _Why couldn't I have gotten Braxant, or Shelsha? Anything outside the Outer Rim would be better than this._

And worse, with Garm Bel Iblis working his way through the neighboring Albrion sector and the remainder of the Empire's holdings in the local Outer Rim, it was only a matter of time before the New Republic came for him here. Admiral Rogriss' squadron of Star Destroyers could hold for a while, he hoped and assumed, but Disra was under no illusions about the eventual fate of this region of space. His rule, such as it was, had a steadily approaching expiration date.

Disra stalked around his office agitatedly. Forty years of hard work, forty years of scheming and plotting and backstabbing. Forty years of slow progress punctuated by exuberant promotion. And what had it gotten him, ultimately? An office on a small, meaningless world. A moderate amount of wealth. He sneered out the window at Kinham below. A scenic view.

His desk com buzzed and he stepped over to it and smacked it with more force than was really necessary. His bony hand stung from the impact. "What?"

"Moff Disra, a Star Destroyer has just entered the system," the crisp, professional voice of the officer-on-watch—Disra forgot his name, Kelson or Kelso or Kelsin or something—said. "IFF reads it as the Star Destroyer _Invidious_ , last reported as an independent. There's an Admiral Tavira aboard who wants to speak with you."

 _A Star Destroyer? And not Rogriss? Strange_ , Disra mused silently. He stepped behind the desk and brought up all the information the system had on _Invidious_. Last in the possession of Admiral Teradoc, in the Deep Core… An _Imperial-II_ class Star Destroyer outmatched any of the mobile units of Linuri's picket individually, but it would stand little chance against the combined power of his Golan defense platforms.

He then looked up Tavira and skimmed her service record. Formerly the Moff of Ado sector, some maneuvering for power since she was expelled from Ado's capital world… "Did she say what she wants?"

"No sir, she refused to talk to anyone but you. She said it was a matter of great importance."

Disra sighed. "Very well, put her through." He sat behind his desk, aligning himself with the Imperial banner to provide a properly imposing backdrop.

The screen flickered and a face appeared, but it was not Leonia Tavira. An older man, distinguished and confident, wearing a Moff's uniform fit well to his frame. An older man Disra recognized immediately, and his heart froze in his chest.

"Hello, Vilim," Moff Fliry Vorru said with a smile, cold as ice. "It's been a long time." Vorru steepled his hands together, leaning them against his chest as his smile grew thin. "I was gratified to hear you'd finally been promoted to Moff, after all these years. You've come a long way from your post as my administrative aide in the Corellian office."

Disra's eyes were wide with shock. Vorru was locked away on Kessel, which was a death trap that had dozens of deaths daily, no one survived! But Vorru was _Vorru_ and his game hadn't been _all_ mystique and misdirection _. Trust a mynock like him to not only survive, but to prosper in such a power vacuum_.

With a ragged breath, Disra searched for poise. It was hard to come by under Vorru's agonizingly smug gaze. "Fliry," he said, trying to match casual familiarity with casual familiarity, and proud at how calm he sounded. "I didn't know you had escaped Kessel."

"But I did, no thanks to you," Vorru said, smiling the same thin, vulture smile that Disra remembered from when he'd been Vorru's aide. "Then again, I never did think we were friends. You never met a man you wouldn't sell for a promotion." Vorru's fingers tapped together, watching Disra with the same cool regard that effortlessly stripped away poise and gravitas earned through his years of service and survival.

Disra scowled at him. It was true of course, but that was just how the Empire worked! That's what it took to be a Moff. And to be lectured on ethics and loyalty by _Vorru_ of all people! "I don't remember you doing me any favors!" he hissed stridently.

Vorru snorted contemptuously. "Didn't I? How many of those pirate and smuggler connections that you made, did you make at my behest? How many people did I introduce you to? How many of those connections have you used to your own benefit?" Vorru's smile was smug, with a hint of menace; his voice grew quiet to match. "And how did you repay me?"

"I owed you nothing," Disra spat at him, his hands slapping on his desk as he came half out of his chair. "You would have left me as a secretary! There was no future in your service. I toiled, and I toiled, and for what? Additional leave?"

"Fail to serve me now and you'll have plenty of leave, but you won't be using it as you'd wish," Vorru said coldly, his eyes flashing with a touch of the old anger. "Because as it stands, I could use your service once again, Vilim." Vorru unlaced his hands and leaned towards the viewer. " _Invidious_ is in need of repairs. You will place the Star Destroyer on the top of the Linuri Repair Yard's priority list. If anyone asks, you will tell them that _Invidious_ is in your _personal_ service, and that her precise role is classified. You can make up something about ISB to deflect any questions. And you will provide me with any additional supply and service that I or _Invidious_ require."

"And why," Disra spat back, feeling his cheeked redden with embarrassment and anger, "would I do any such thing?!"

"Because," Vorru's eyes narrowed to slits, and then his lips morphed back into his cold, vulture smile. "If you do not, I will send all my evidence of your activities to the Moff Council and the Imperial Starfleet command. All the deals with pirates. All the arrangements with Black Sun. All your treasonous activities in the Shelsha sector. _Everything_ , Vilim. And then I will sit back and see how long it takes for you to be executed for treason."

"I have no idea what you're talking about," Disra retorted, his heart pounding in his chest. "I am a loyal—"

"You are loyal to nothing and no one!" Vorru exploded, snarling with a rage that Disra had not forgotten the man could possess. Disra flinched back despite himself. The fire in Vorru's eyes blazed, and then passed as the man settled back, steepling his hands together again, his calm restored. "Did you think I lost everything when Palpatine destroyed my career, Vilim? Did you think I would not have security, to keep my most important secrets?" His smile was vicious. "I know, Vilim. I know everything. Do not forget that."

Disra couldn't help himself. "I got into all that because _you_ told me to!" he snarled angrily. "I worked _for you_."

"And so you will again," Vorru agreed, his tone oddly friendly now. "Won't you?"

Disra could feel the urge to hyperventilate building in his gut. Suddenly all the problems with Linuri, the woes of his stalled career, the looming threat of Bel Iblis, none of it mattered. He knew Fliry Vorru, and he knew better than to underestimate the man. He forced it all back. "What do I get?" he said, trying to match the other man's calm.

"What do you get?" Vorru laughed. "What do _you_ get, Vilim?"

"Yes," Disra snarled. "What do _I_ get. You clearly need me, Fliry. Destroying me won't get you repairs on your Star Destroyer, or whatever else it is that you want from me. So," he sneered, eyes narrowing. "What. Do. I. Get."

Vorru's smile was slow and genuine—or a reasonable facsimile of genuine. "There's the Disra I remember," he mused. "Ambitious and bold. Good. I can use that Disra." He tapped his fingers together again, watching Disra with a patient, curious smile. "Shall we make a deal?"

* * *

"Could you really destroy him?" asked Leonia Tavira after Vorru had disabled the viewer. Her violet eyes were keen and she seemed somewhat energized after having watched the exchange.

"Of course," Vorru replied. "An important rule, Tavira, one to remember: do not make threats you cannot keep."

That seemed to amuse her. She stood, brushing her hands over her slacks then adjusting her bandanna. "I will return to the bridge and oversee our arrival at the Linuri repair facility. A full refit will likely take weeks," she mused thoughtfully. " _Invidious_ was long overdue even before the damage we sustained."

"Palpatine had the _Imperial-II_ designed to require regular repair," Vorru said, remaining seated. "It was a way of ensuring his commanders could not exercise too much independence." He lifted a hand to stop her from exiting the room. "I will be leaving in the morning, along with Eliezer and the Tevas-kaar. I will also need a civilian freighter and a pilot."

Tavira frowned at him, but this request was not unexpected. It had always been part of the plan, after all. "Fine," she agreed grudgingly. "I'll see to it." She turned and left.

Vorru relaxed, smiling to himself. Depending on the speed of the ship she procured for him, it would be a short hop from Linuri to Druckenwell, then a relatively quick trip along the Corellian Run from Druckenwell to Coruscant. _And then_ , he thought smugly, _it will be time to take back what is mine._


	12. Chapter Eleven

Mara sat behind her desk in the new Smugglers' Alliance office and rifled through her stack of datacards. Karrde was away, off in a final meeting with Leia Organa Solo and other representatives of the New Republic's inner circle, signing the paperwork that would finalize the creation of the Smugglers' Alliance. And she, Mara Jade, would become an official agent of the New Republic's government.

She leaned back in her very comfortable, Karrde-sourced desk chair. Until then, there was literally nothing for her to do. Ghent had finished putting together the program that would offer shipping assignments (and compensation) to the Smugglers' Alliance membership, and General Cracken had made it clear that Mara's new NRI counterpart, the mysterious Iella Wessiri everyone seemed to know, was currently busy on assignment.

What Mara would give for an assignment.

Left alone in the Smugglers' Alliance office, deep in the Imperial Palace, Mara had done some exercises and tried a bit of Skywalker's seated meditation. It didn't help. The Imperial Palace loomed around her like a castle, and in her mind she ran through the floor plan of the floor she was on, then the floors above and below. She didn't have a holographic memory like Winter, but she was no slouch and knowing the hidden byways of the Palace inside and out had been one of the first tasks Palpatine had ever required of her. The Palace had been her proving grounds, her first confined theatre of operations; she knew every suite, every office, and every hidden passageway.

She wasn't sure when she'd perfected her mental map of the palace, but she'd been young. Not yet even a teenager to be sure. Then Palpatine had set her loose, spying on his friends and rivals in equal measure, with a myriad of cover identities that she rarely needed, so skilled she had been at using the Palace's secrets to avoid being seen.

And soon enough the Palace would be gone.

She had told Skywalker that the Palace's impending destruction was for the best. That it would improve the view from the Adarian building. But part of her—the part that still thought of this building as _home_ —recoiled from the possibility. All that effort, all those years of struggle and work and discipline, her out-of-date mental map, all gone, disassembled, made to disappear the way the New Republic strove to make the Empire disappear.

Spurred by some impulse she didn't quite understand, she sat up and activated her computer terminal. The system whirred as it came up, then Mara searched for the floor plan of the palace. The one that came up was incomplete, and Mara frowned at it for a moment before realizing that the sectors that were missing were classified. It wasn't all that surprising that the "restaurant" that Cracken had taken Karrde to didn't appear on the public map.

She wasn't a skilled slicer like Ghent, but Mara knew her way around a computer network and it would take more than even an excellent security system to keep the Emperor's Hand out of files she wanted to access in her own house. Unless the New Republic had replaced the entire computer mainframe—which she doubted—there were certain commands embedded into the hardware itself that Mara might well be the last person alive to know. She'd have to tell Cracken about them eventually, but in the meantime…

She brought up the full, unredacted map of the Imperial Palace and started perusing it, comparing her Imperial memories to the new Republic reality. She noted that the secret passages that she'd shown Palace Security a year prior, when she and Garm Bel Iblis had foiled the Empire's attempt to kidnap Jacen and Jaina (her thoughts softened for a moment at the thought of Jaina; her memories of the toddler's innocent affection surged forward, threatening to derail her train of thought) were now on the map. They hadn't found _all_ of them, though, which was curious. The passages must be better hidden than Mara remembered. Or perhaps one of the Palace's more recent occupants had blocked them off permanently, she considered.

Scrolling through the map, she stopped at room after room, flashing back to memories of each one. A first mission—an investigation of the secret safe of the Governor of Chandrila, who Palpatine had suspected of collaborating with Mon Mothma—from one room; Force practice under Palpatine's guidance in the large training room near the throne room (which the New Republic had transformed into offices for the aides to the Inner Council); her extensive (and excruciating) training in manners, etiquette, and conversation in the small ballroom…

Mara frowned suddenly, staring at an empty gap on the map. That was odd. Her previous base of operations was missing.

That was _very_ odd.

One of the Palace's many towers had hosted a landing pad for the freighter that Mara had used as her personal vessel. Her primary armory had been there also, as well as a sophisticated computer system that she used to monitor her ongoing assignments. She'd had dozens of smaller bases scattered around Coruscant, serving as safehouses while she was on assignment and couldn't return to the Palace, but the tower had been her primary. She could still remember when Palpatine had brought her there the first time, congratulating her for all her hard work and formally announcing that she was no longer a trainee but was now the Emperor's Hand…

But the tower in question didn't have a hangar listed, not on either the public or the classified map. Where she _knew_ a hangar had been, where _her_ hangar had been, the map showed nothing more than permacrete foundation and utilities lines.

Mara's frown deepened. Was it possible that New Republic Intelligence had missed it during their sweep of the palace? In theory it was, she supposed; the hangar had been hidden well enough. It had never appeared on any Imperial-era maps of the palace, Palpatine had seen to that.

Her musings were distracted as the office door opened and Karrde stepped in. He wore one of his quietly smug expressions, and flashed her an unusually satisfied grin. He slid a datapad across her desk, then fell into his even-more-comfortable seat and set up one of his electronic scramblers.

"Good news?" Mara asked as she examined the datapad.

"Good news," Karrde confirmed. "Meeting with the Inner Council is exhausting, and both Fey'lya and Ackbar expressed… degrees of skepticism… about the sustainability of our project. But neither vetoed it, either." He nodded at the datapad. "We have a contract, and formal signatures. As of…" he examined his chrono, "fifteen-hundred standard Coruscant hours, we have a formal, verified, legal contract and are now officially the Smugglers' Alliance."

Mara put the datapad down. "When will operations commence?"

"Immediately, in the case of shipping. There's a list of vital cargoes on that pad that the New Republic wants taken care of right away. I've already identified which of our associates are best placed to take care of each one, and I'll be sending additional bonuses out to ensure that they're taken care of in a timely fashion. Best to get started off with everyone happy."

"And in the case of intelligence?"

Karrde shrugged. "Agent Wessiri is still on assignment, I understand, but if any information comes to our attention that we think might be to the interests of NRI, I will forward it to General Cracken. He and I will be meeting once more before the _Wild Karrde_ leaves Coruscant; we need to discuss Rendili before I head out to confer with General Bel Iblis. Of course, the current state of the HoloNet makes long-range communication much more complicated."

Mara nodded. "I think I might have something that they could be interested in too," Mara said, glancing back at the map of the Palace. "But I want to go check it out before we tell them anything, in case it's nothing."

"Oh?" Karrde raised an eyebrow. "Anything concerning?"

"I'm not sure," Mara admitted. "I'll let you know."

"Mara," Karrde said warningly. "You know that I trust you, and I am fully aware of your skills and expertise, but investigating anything that might be 'in the interests of NRI' alone is foolhardy. Do you want me to come with you? Or I can call Dankin or Chin back from leave."

She pursed her lips. "No, that's all right," she replied. "I'll ask Skywalker. I think I'm going to need his droid's scanners for this, anyway."

"Ah." Karrde's lips twitched, and Mara swore he was hiding a smile. "Well, between you and Skywalker, I don't think there are any dangers in the galaxy you cannot handle."

Mara's eyes narrowed, but Karrde just looked back at her with a damnably innocent expression. Her eyes narrowed even more. "Karrde…"

He smiled. "Go on, Mara," he said, amusement lurking in his voice. "I'll take care of things here."

* * *

The Imperial Palace had dozens of towers, many of which served no purpose other than defense. The external ring was festooned with weapons emplacements and surveillance equipment that made sure no one approached the tower unauthorized or unnoticed (though Luke had learned that the system was easy enough to compromise if you knew how, and the Empire did).

He peered up at the fourteenth tower of that outer ring with a frown. "How do we get in?"

Beside him, Artoo whistled and put his wheels securely on the permacrete walkway, rolling towards the tower with his little sensor dish whirling.

Mara wore a deceptively blank expression. Her shielding was good, but he could still feel the undercurrents of tension and uncertainty roiling beneath her placid surface.

They stood on one of the external walks that separated the towers at higher levels. The Coruscant sun was hazy through a thick layer of clouds, and on occasional smattering of rain had left the permacrete slick. In front of them was Palace Tower Fourteen; like the rest of the Palace it was crafted out of imported stone and then covered in a layer of black paint. The external wall of the tower was tough and resistant to damage, and the paint left it too slippery to climb. Glancing from side to side, Luke could see Tower Thirteen and Tower Fifteen, and more towers beyond those.

The Palace was enormous. Looking outwards, he could see the comparatively tiny form of the Senate Building, it's dome occasionally reflecting sunlight when the clouds shifted. Beyond that, he could see the array of towers that characterized the endless city. It wouldn't have meant anything to him a few weeks before, but looking out now the gleaming pyramidal peak of the Adarian Building stood out to Luke.

Mara stepped in close to the tower. Her hands rested over the painted stone, gliding as she slowly started to circle the tower. She stopped and Luke could see her press into the seemingly smooth material, and see it give under her applied pressure. There was a click, and Mara stepped back as creases in the stone appeared and a heavy door swung slowly open.

"Impressive craftsmanship," Luke commented, feeling no small amount of awe at the extraordinary stonework.

"Palpatine left no credits unspent when he built the Palace," Mara said. She stepped into the gap in the stone. The corridors were lit only intermittently, from sunlight that peered in through windows along the exterior. Mara unbuckled her lightsaber and ignited it with a _snap-hiss_. The blade cast blue-white light into the narrow walkway. "There are other ways to get into this tower from the lower levels," she commented. "I wouldn't typically have used this one. Too great a chance of being spotted."

"Does that mean we're not worried about being spotted now?" Luke asked.

Artoo wheeled after Mara into the darkened corridor, producing a large spotlight as his sensor dish continued to whir. The light cast over Mara, leaving a shadow of her form stretched along the long corridor.

"Whatever we find I'll have to take to Cracken anyway," Mara replied. "And I don't want to be accused of sneaking around the Imperial Palace." She led them down the corridor, the only light from her lightsaber and Artoo's spotlight. They came to a fork, with the corridor shifting off to the left and right. "It goes all around the tower," Mara explained. "There are hidden passageways to get deeper in, if you know where to look." They walked through the dark corridor, passing small, camouflaged windows that looked out both over the palace's interior courtyards, and out into the city. "Observation deck," she added. "In the event of an uprising, Stormtroopers could station snipers or E-Web nests and cover the city surrounding the palace, or the palace grounds themselves from up here."

Luke peered out one of the windows, seeing the tiny figures of people going about their daily lives far below in the exterior courtyards. "Palpatine was prepared for everything," he commented.

"He certainly thought he was, anyway," Mara muttered, more than a hint of scorn touching her words. She waved him back into the corridor. "Now, along this inner wall…" she stopped, disengaging her lightsaber and putting it back on her belt before placing the palms of both her hands on the interior wall of the corridor. She drew back with a frown. "Artoo, are your scanners picking up anything? I'm pretty sure there was a door here."

The little astromech wheeled up next to her, his sensor dish whirling slowly. He gave an uncertain warble.

Mara glanced at Luke. "What did he say?"

"Too much interference in the wall for him to be sure where the door is," Luke replied with a frown. He closed his eyes, stretching out to the Force, pushing his Force-sense through the wall and beyond. It was much easier to find minds than it was to map geography… "There is a large open space beyond us," he murmured. "Several meters in. I don't feel any passageways leading to it, though."

Mara stepped back, re-igniting her lightsaber to cast its blue glow across the wall. Her frown became the most visible single image in the entire corridor. "It was here," she said with certainty. "Someone must have come along and changed things around in the years I've been gone. Walled off the passageway."

Artoo warbled uncertainly.

"I'm not sure who," Mara replied, "but I'd guess Isard. She was one of Palpatine's few favorites who knew who and what I was, along with Thrawn. After Palpatine died at Endor—" her voice wavered for only a moment "—she had me arrested and locked up in the Palace. During interrogation she asked me all kinds of questions about what resources Palpatine had given me. It wouldn't surprise me if she tracked this facility down after I made my escape."

"So we should be worried about traps?" Luke asked, his hand on his own lightsaber.

"It's Isard, " stated Mara flatly. "Of course you ought to be worried about traps, the more convoluted the better. Come on, let's continue our circuit and see if we can't find a better-hidden entrance."

It took them the better part of an hour, stopping and starting to use all their (and Artoo's) senses to probe various promising locations. It was Artoo's triumphant whistle that finally brought the search to a halt.

"Found something?" Mara asked.

Artoo whistled again, his sensor dome spinning as his one large photoreceptor swiveled between Luke and Mara, his large light focused on a particular spot on the wall.

Mara stepped in close, feeling her hand over the wall slowly.

"He says there's a small recess in the wall that might be a trigger—"

Mara pressed down and the wall underneath it gave way. There was a whirring sound, a hiss of air, the smell of old lubricant, and then the slow mechanical creaking of a hidden doorway swinging back. Mara pressed her back to the wall next to the slowly yawing opening; Luke quickly did the same on the other side. With a nervous warble, Artoo wheeled out of sight of the passageway.

It slowly creaked open and then stopped with a heavy, stone-on-stone shudder. Mara drew back, her green eyes flicking to Luke. "Well?"

"Not feeling any imminent danger," he replied softly.

"Me neither," she replied, and reached her hand out into the opening. When nothing happened, Mara pulled back from the wall and poked her head to the side to take a look.

The revealed passageway was nothing special. Dark, stone, square, just like the one they were already in. "Not very exciting," Luke commented.

"There was no need to make it decorative," Mara countered. "Nobody was supposed to see this. Come on."

They took their time down the hallway, both stretched out to the Force, seeking danger. It was an odd sensation, Luke thought. He could feel the structure around them; the passageway, but more than anything he could feel _Mara_. Her mind and his met in the middle, and stretched out as they were, it was hard to maintain the normal shields that would assure privacy. He could hear the edges of her thoughts, and knew she could hear him. It was strangely intimate, even if the only thought that was shared was their twin determination to keep from being surprised by a potential threat.

 _The opening ahead should lead to the main facility,_ he heard. Had Mara said that, or thought it? An image of a large, wide hangar with a bulk freighter within it flashed into his mind; he saw a silver protocol droid with visual sensors that looked more like a blindfold than eyes. Mara, performing maintenance; Mara, discussing an assignment with the droid; Mara, hearing Palpatine's cold, approving voice in her head…

"Stop that," Mara hissed at him.

"You're projecting," Luke replied apologetically, trying to ease the flow of memories past him.

He felt more than saw her grimace and the images stopped. "You know," she growled testily, "if you were carrying a blaster you could cover me, instead of just standing behind me being useless if we get shot at."

"You could let me go in front."

"Unlike you, I know where I'm going."

They came to the end of the passage—it hadn't been that long since they'd entered it, stretching out to the Force and the accidental intimacy of the moment had caused time to come to a sluggish halt—and entered into the hangar that Luke had seen in Mara's memories. It was well maintained; a maintenance droid was humming as it worked, ignoring their presence entirely. Throughout the room was a battery of computers, their screens dark, set in front of empty chairs that the droid moved to clean, then returned to their place. Against the opposite wall sat the freighter from Mara's thoughts.

She blinked, shaking her head. "I didn't really expect it to still be here," she murmured.

"It was your ship?" Luke asked carefully.

"One of them. Its name is _L6000-H-82688_. It's a modified Maka-Eekai freighter." She frowned. "Looks like it was just left here, though I'm sure Isard searched it thoroughly."

"The name of your ship was just a string of numbers and letters?" Luke asked. He relaxed as his danger sense still hadn't alerted him to any, withdrawing his Force senses slightly; he could feel Mara doing the same, and the entanglement of their emotions faded. He peered around the room. This had been Mara's place, the place the Emperor's Hand had made her fortress.

"Well, we used many different false identities for the ship when we traveled," Mara replied. "It was best not to get too attached to the ship anyway, Palpatine made me replace them regularly to make sure I didn't get predictable, or I would've kept the Suwantek… what _is_ this thing?" She took a set in front of one of the terminals, tapping on the keyboard.

Luke joined her. "They weren't here before?" he asked; it was an unnecessary question, as the memory he had seen of this place had been of an open space, uncluttered. The screen was slow to illuminate, bearing all the typical interface markers of an Imperial computer.

"No," she replied, tapping on the keyboard with increasing annoyance. A prompt appeared, requesting a password. "Isard took this over, remember?" Mara growled, and Luke could hear a hint of righteous indignation in her voice. "I'm sure of it now. She probably made it a sanctum for Imperial Intelligence's worst."

There was a twinge in Luke's danger sense, and he peered around, concentrating… but the twinge didn't grow into any greater alarm.

"What is it?"

"Probably nothing," Luke said.

"Well," Mara's attention reluctantly returned to the computer. "I'm not going to try to slice this right now. I'll put together a report and send it to Cracken and let Ghent and NRI take a crack at it, maybe they can figure out what Isard was using this place for." Her righteous scowl remained.

He couldn't take his eyes off her. There was place and purpose in her expression, the anger of a woman whose home had been usurped from her. "This was _your_ place," Luke murmured, finally giving voice to his earlier thought.

Mara's eyes flicked back to him, hardening for a moment—but just for a moment—before she consciously relaxed. "Yeah," she replied with a sigh. "This was my place. This all belonged to the Emperor's Hand." She waved at the room. "The tower, the ship, the droids, the Imperial officers who rotated in and out and served as my crew and support… it was all mine." A small, melancholy smile tugged at her lips. "It's not quite as grand as I remembered it," she admitted. Her head dipped slightly, looking down at the Imperial-style keyboard under her hands. "None of this was what really mattered, though. What made this all special was the responsibility. Being _needed._ Everything else…" she shrugged, waving her hand at the room again, her voice trailing off.

Luke took a risk and rested a hand on her shoulder nearest to him for a moment, feeling the tightly tensed muscle before raising it. "Someone with your fire and conviction turning it around to help people? I can assure you you're needed, Mara." He could hear the tenderness in his voice, and fought to keep his swell of emotions safely behind his own mental shields.

She turned towards him, her expression neutral, something undefinable lurking in her eyes. She didn't back away, and for just an instant he thought he could feel her lean closer into his hand. "I'm not sure it'll ever be enough to make up for…" her voice faded, and she shook her head. "I should've seen it sooner," she said quietly. She closed her eyes for a moment, and he could feel her engaging old memories, settling ghosts to rest. When her voice came again, it startled him. "We're wasting time." Her voice punctured the calm with suddenness, but without any anger. "Come on, let's take a look at the ship."

* * *

The Palace Security operations center was largely unchanged from the days of the Empire, although the uniforms were different (there were fewer sets of Stormtrooper armor, among other things).

Lieutenant Caston Nalle had been a Captain in the Rebellion, but a knee injury had rendered him unfit for field service and he'd accepted medical retirement before assuming a supervisory post with Palace Security. Most days nothing interesting happened, which suited him just fine.

"Uh, Lieutenant?" the young Corporal who was at the computer monitoring station called.. Corporal Corde Brandes was a relatively new recruit, still in her first year with Palace Security, and young, but she had a talent for computers and was doing well so far in her rotation in SecOps.

He turned in his chair, standing up awkwardly and hobbling over with his cane in his hand. "What is it, Corporal?" he asked.

"Well, there's an alarm code here that doesn't appear in our manual," she said, her lips firming together in confusion. In one hand she had a datapad which she'd already gone through, he could see; her other rested on the controls of her console.

He could see the flashing alert on the screen. "Code Iota-Thirteen-Ten-A," he read. His frown deepened. That didn't mean anything to him, either. "Strange indeed," he mused. "And there's nothing in the codebook? Anything under just 'Iota-Thirteen'?"

Brandes shook her head, the tightly-coiled dark braid of her hair bobbing back and forth in emphasis. "No, Lieutenant," she replied.

"Hmmmm," Caston considered that for a moment. "Well, there are a whole lot of old Imperial codes buried in these computer systems. It's probably a systems error. Maybe we can figure out what it means…" he strode over to his desk and gingerly pulled it open. There was a stack of datapads ten deep in there, recovered from when the New Republic had first captured Coruscant. New Republic Intelligence had gone through them with a fine-toothed comb and Palace Security never had gotten all of them back, but… Caston picked up the stack and hobbled back to Brandes' desk, giving her half. "Let's see if there's anything in these," he said.

They started searching through them, checking under appropriate codes. It was a while before either of them found anything relevant. "Aha!" Brandes announced, her dark eyes flashing victoriously. "Here we are. Iota-Thirteen-Ten codes… there's not a lot of information here. Instructions, but not information for what they actually mean."

Caston took the datapad from her. There was a list of different codes under the prefix "Iota," and all of them included instructions for dispatching Stormtroopers to certain palace locations and implementing enhanced security measures against intrusion. He noted the date of when these instructions were issued. "These are all from after the Emperor's death, when Director Isard was in charge," he mused aloud. "Iota-Thirteen-Ten-A. Dispatch two units of Stormtroopers to Tower Fourteen," he read. "Cut off all exits, and alert aerial patrols for potential exfiltration attempts. Also alert local Fleet commanders to prepare to interdict any unauthorized vehicles launching from the Imperial Palace." He lifted an eyebrow. He peered at the map of the Imperial Palace. Tower Fourteen wasn't anything interesting, so why… ?

"What do we do?" asked his young Corporal.

Caston shrugged. "Well, let's dispatch a Palace Security team down to check it out at least, full biologicals because it's Isard, and then get a squadron armed and in the air just in case. And…" he frowned, waving at her solicitously, "give me a line to NRI Headquarters. I think Cracken and his spooks will be interested to know that one of Isard's old palace alert codes just pinged our board."

* * *

The entry hatch to her freighter, which as Emperor's Hand she'd never given a name beyond its manufacturer's registry number, _L6000-H-82688_ , opened and hissed as the ship's internal vacuum was punctured. It wasn't a very pretty ship; like most ships to come out of the Gallofree Yards it was symmetrical and ovoid, designed for transport and cargo. It was actually about the same size as the _Wild Karrde_ , though it had much less room for cargo (especially if it was carrying a snubfighter; as Emperor's Hand Mara had usually kept her Z-95 tucked away in its internal hangar).

Memories swirled as she hit the control panel on the inside of the door, and the ship's lights flickered to life. She peered inside; activating the lights hadn't triggered any obvious traps, which was a good sign, but Mara would be shocked if there wasn't at least one homing beacon that had just been activated. Mara had known better than to come back here after she'd escaped Isard's clutches, finding civilian transport off Coruscant instead of trying to reclaim her ship, but Isard would surely have put a homing device aboard, just in case.

On the outside, _L6000-H-82688_ was a battered looking, pre-Clone Wars era wreck—at least, it was to the inexperienced eye. But the ship's four engines had been carefully overhauled and could put out significantly more thrust than the ones it had been built around, and as carefully camouflaged as they were, no customs crew would miss the ship's retractable dual laser cannon turrets. It's single forward-mounted spinal turbolaser was better hidden, which was good since under the Empire it had been _so_ illegal, the whole ship would've been instantly impounded if it was found. And as illegal as that was, it wasn't as illegal as the two forward-mounted rapid-fire proton torpedo launchers.

The interior was as Mara remembered it, with a clean Imperial finish that gave Mara an eerie sense of homesickness. For better or worse, this tower, this ship and the job she had been groomed for had been her home.

The large cargo bay stretched back for the entire length of the ship, the small passenger entrance under the ship's blunt, rounded nose and the much larger cargo hatch (which could accommodate a snubfighter's in-vacuum launch) at the back. Twin stairwells curled upwards to the passenger deck above them, hugging the front of the ship.

"Nice," Skywalker commented, glancing around.

"Nothing but the best for ISB," Mara commented. "This wasn't the first of their covert ops ships I commandeered for my own use. You should've seen their operating budget… if Palpatine had ever sent me after them, the amount of waste and corruption in that organization would've kept me busy for the rest of my natural life." _If Palpatine hadn't died._

If Skywalker heard her unspoken addition—which he may have, he was alarmingly attuned to her subvocalized thoughts today—he didn't say. "The bridge is above?" he asked instead.

Mara nodded. "Bridge, crew quarters, common area, and my own quarters." She stretched out with the Force, searching for danger once again; felt Skywalker doing the same, felt how their senses intermingled, giving her a glimpse into what he was seeing and knowing that he was receiving a glimpse into her mind as well… she reinforced her mental shields, trying to keep from broadcasting her memories as she had on the way in.

It was hard.

She might not have ever given _L6000-H-82688_ a proper name, but the ship had been her home for the better part of two years. Imperial Center, the Imperial Palace; they had been her home for most of her life, but this ship (and its predecessors) had become the places she spent most of her time once the Emperor started sending her on missions off Coruscant.

Mara had never expected to be aboard her again.

Re-entering the large common space on the ship's upper deck brought flashes of memory; the largely nameless, faceless men who had been her crew, so constantly replaced that none of them so much as stood out in her memory as more than obedient droids. The gaming table, where she had occasionally favored Kaythree with a game of dejarik, which she had always won (something which had never bothered the droid overmuch). Kaythree, her aide and the ship's effective operations officer, who had been as polite and unnoticeable as the human members of the crew but unlike them had at least been consistent; she'd never thought much of the droid, but still her heart tightened just a bit at the sure knowledge that Isard had pulled him apart and scoured his memory for every spare scrap of information, then tossed whatever was left into the palace waste disposal.

She pushed through, entering the large captain's quarters in the back of the ship. It had served as a combination briefing room and bedroom; a large holographic display sat in the middle of the room, which she had used to detail every mission she was given. She had spent hours here, sitting and reading, planning and plotting, educating herself about every detail of a world, a city, or a target. No mistakes could be made; they were as unacceptable to the Emperor's Hand as they had been to the Emperor. On the one wall sat two tall bookshelves which had played host to numerous books and souvenirs of missions past; more than any other single place in the galaxy, those bookshelves had been her place. Her finest missions, her proudest accomplishments, tokens of memory. All gone now, probably buried in a forgotten closet aboard _Lusankya,_ which had been Isard's personal _Super-_ class Star Destroyer and lair. There was a locker somewhere, she guessed, filled with the trinkets and possessions of her childhood, such as it had been.

Mara could remember some of the objects. A globe with the appearance of Ghel Daneth, a gift from that planet's governor after she'd arrested his top aide and executed the commander of Ghel Daneth's fleet detachment for treason (they'd been routing military funds into their own personal accounts, leaving the planet woefully under-defended and vulnerable); a print of a painting of the Silver Sea on Chandrila, which she had picked up on a whim one time she had visited the art wing of the Imperial Museum; a book on dance she'd owned since she was a teenager, still struggling with perfecting her art.

Skywalker was watching her, and she knew the images were leaking across the porous boundary between their outstretched minds. She could feel the swell of emotion, of sympathy and care, and she tightened her shields and put her past out of her mind. She had blamed him for the loss of that past once, not that long ago; his fault or not, she didn't need to burden him with the extent of her loss.

Surprisingly, there was one wall which had been left largely untouched. She moved over to it; felt Luke stop and stare at the wall of weapons. Her armory had everything from sniper rifles to holdout blasters, a half-dozen vibroblades of varying sizes, and even a Sith _lanvarok_ (though that had been a gift from Palpatine she'd never used; she wasn't left handed). The spot on the wall where she'd kept her lightsaber was woefully empty.

Mara found herself drawn to one of the items. It was an old one, one of the only items on the wall that wasn't a weapon. Back when she'd been younger, before the Emperor had sent her on missions through the entire galaxy, when the scope of her operational area only extended through Coruscant, he'd had a tool for communicating with her that wasn't the Force. A simple communications wristcom, hooked in to her personal computer net. Prompted by an instinct, undefinable but nonetheless _real_ , she picked it up and turned it over. The screen lit up; the device was still charged.

"Wow," Skywalker said, drawing her attention away from the wristcom, which she slipped into a pocket. His gaze was on the weapons still on the wall. "Have you used all these?"

"No," Mara replied. "Not in combat. Tested, yes, but some of them are more flash than substance, better left on the wall." She turned and gazed around the room, feeling the weight of memory and loss press down upon her, mixed with confusion. Yes, this had been home, once… home to the Emperor's Hand. _That isn't me anymore, so why does it still provoke this feeling of longing and loss?_ "Best not to touch any of these," she growled in response to the emotion. "Isard probably sabotaged them."

The twinge of her danger sense was matched by Skywalker's sudden sense of alarm. It was probably for the best; the way his emotions had reached out to hers had been alarmingly comforting, and she'd started to lean into his emotional embrace before she could stop herself. _That_ was probably the most confusing thing of all, and she was almost glad for the sudden sense of alarm. Her first thought was that the weapons had indeed been sabotaged, but the danger wasn't quite so proximate.

"We have company," Skywalker murmured, his voice all business. "There are a half-dozen people approaching the way we came, and fast."

She closed her eyes, concentrating; felt the consciousnesses of well-trained men and women, and one particularly bright, vivid mind who felt more curious than alarmed…

"That is General Cracken," Skywalker answered her unspoken question, and Mara grimaced both at the fact that he knew what she was thinking, and at what he'd said.

"I suppose I'll get to make my first Smugglers' Alliance intelligence report in person," she muttered.

* * *

"General Cracken," Mara greeted the man leading the small parade of Palace Security agents as she trotted down the freighter's aft entry ramp. There were quite a lot of them, more than seemed reasonable. The men and women were clearly serious-minded and well armed; one of them started examining the computers, while two others passed by her and Skywalker and went up into the ship. "I'd be careful in there," she warned them, looking at Cracken. "Skywalker and I didn't clear it of booby traps, and Isard might've left something."

Cracken nodded at the security team, and they proceeded more cautiously. "It hasn't even been three hours since the Smugglers' Alliance contact was signed," he said, arching an eyebrow, "and here I already find you and Jedi Skywalker skulking around the palace grounds, identifying old Imperial bases of operations."

Mara crossed her arms in front of her chest, glowering vociferously. "I wasn't skulking," she retorted. "I was investigating, and out in the open at that."

The head of New Republic Intelligence offered a thin, polite smile in response. "What did you find?"

She shrugged. "This used to be my base of operations on Coruscant. The ship behind us was my final operations vessel before—" she paused, considering the right way to frame it "—I left the Imperial service."

"So it's yours then?" Cracken asked, his eyes sharp. "Are you making a claim for ownership?"

Mara frowned. That thought hadn't occurred to her. Now that Cracken mentioned it, she could think of several uses for the freighter, and Karrde might be interested in adding it to his fleet. "I'm not sure if I have a legal claim," she said slowly. "I don't have any flimsiwork that could prove prior ownership, given the… unofficial… nature of my position. If I do have a legal claim that would hold up in court, I wouldn't mind getting it back."

Cracken just nodded. "I'll look into it. I should mention that I've been in contact with Agent Wessiri, but her operational duties at the moment make her unavailable to assume her post as NRI Liaison to the Smugglers' Alliance at this time."

She'd almost forgotten Skywalker's presence. "You're going to be working with Iella?" he asked, tilting his head at her and smiling. "That's great!"

"You know her?"

The blonde Jedi offered a somewhat boyish, slightly abashed smile. "Iella and I go way back. General Cracken asked me to do him this favor—"

"Ah, Jedi Skywalker, perhaps we should leave that one with little else said," Cracken cut in. He turned to Mara. "Agent Wessiri's current task is an important one, but I'll task her to you as soon as it's complete. In the meantime, if you're planning on uncovering any more hidden Imperial bases in the palace, perhaps you should contact me first?"

Luke grinned at her. Mara frowned at them both. "Fine," she agreed curtly.

Cracken smiled. It was an expression that Mara found vaguely unsettling; one of determination and echoes of omniscience. It reminded her of Karrde, who enjoyed nothing better than knowing things he shouldn't and dangling hints of profound insight before an enraptured audience, just out of their reach.

She then remembered that those two kindred spirits were working together now, and shuddered internally.

"What made you decide to come down here?" Cracken asked.

Mara frowned, glancing sideways at Skywalker and then away from him again. "I had a hunch."

"A hunch?" Cracken turned his own attention on Skywalker and lifted one grey eyebrow. "A Jedi hunch, I presume?"

Skywalker shrugged his shoulders innocently. "I told her they might start becoming more common again as she opened herself up to the Force. I didn't know that it would happen so quickly, though."

Cracken's expression was one of resignation. "I suppose I've gotten used to your reports with 'I had a hunch' as justification for action. I'll just have to get used to Miss Jade's as well."

"If she's working with Iella, you won't have to worry about that so much," Skywalker replied confidently. "Iella has a way of turning Jedi hunches into actual information." He grinned at Mara. "You'll like her."

Mara kept frowning. There was something about the way Skywalker talked about Wessiri that annoyed her. But just then, _everything_ about Skywalker and his chirpy connections to his squeaky-clean New Republic annoyed her. "Sure. Can we go?"

Skywalker's expression fell slightly, but he nodded. "Did we get what we came for?"

Mara paused, her frown deepening yet again. Had she? Why _had_ she come here? It had just been a hunch—was the hunch now satisfied? She turned back towards the hanger; her ship, sitting quietly against the wall; the bay of Imperial Intelligence computers arrayed across the open space. The large floor which had been a place for training, when more public locations were inappropriate. It was all so familiar, and yet… all so alien, now.

Why had she come? Closure?

"I guess," she muttered. The Force wasn't tugging at her, wasn't drawing her to stay longer. And she had no interest in being here while Cracken dissected her life, just as Isard had half a decade before. She turned towards the exit and refused to look back. "Yes. Let's go, Skywalker."

The sound of his footsteps behind her was oddly reassuring, but Mara resolved to convince him to carry his blaster. He'd be terrible backup at any distance beyond close combat without one. If Skywalker was going to be the one watching her back, she needed to make sure he could do it properly.


	13. Chapter Twelve

Luke's dreams were persistent. The Force vision which had first appeared to him during meditation in the Jedi Museum teased him with glimpses of insight. The master and the child; the latter uncertain and wary, the former confident, with guiding words. Glimpses of lightsaber training, not unlike what he had offered Mara a few days before; glimpses of camaraderie. _Is it just meant as an example of quality training? Is the Force teaching me how to teach? Or is there another message in it, one I'm not seeing yet?_

There was a sense of familiarity to it, as if he _should_ know what it was he was seeing. Luke suspected that a Jedi more attuned to the spiritual side, like Yoda, might have had the insight necessary to put the pieces together, or to draw more pieces out from what the Force offered, but Luke still couldn't quite get there. Whatever it was, this was the third time he'd caught glimpses of the student and master, the twinned blue lightsabers that each carried, and the careful lightsaber katas that the younger was learning. Words like _grace_ and _mindfulness_ hovered at the edges of Luke's sensation; _calm_ and _focused_.

He rubbed his face and checked his chrono. The first hints of sun were starting to come through the transparisteel windows of his apartment in the Imperial Palace. He pulled the blinds open and looked out over the busy city, the jungle of towering buildings and the busy air traffic; the spaceships descending and ascending in good order. It was early for him to be awake, but not that early; between his early life on Tatooine and the urge to take advantage of the most pleasant hours of the Tatooine day, and the many years in the Rebellion that called for quick wakefulness, Luke had never been one to sleep in long past dawn.

There was a mechanical whirring, and Artoo trundled into the room and whistled a greeting.

"Good morning, Artoo," Luke replied with a smile. "Is the X-wing all ready to go?"

The droid whistled an affirmative, then an elaboration that sent Luke grappling for his translator. He could understand Artoo well enough for simple things, but when it got complicated the translator helped.

"Karrde has stashed the X-wing in the _Wild Karrde's_ cargo hold?" Luke read aloud. "And you've moved most of my travel gear down to the hangar." He nodded at Artoo. "Thanks, buddy," he said, patting Artoo's dome. "You're not worried about traveling with Karrde again?"

Artoo blatted dismissively at him.

Luke read the translation of the response and laughed. "Karrde's a good guy now? What makes you so sure?"

Artoo whistled, his dome spinning.

"Because he likes us?" Luke smiled, thinking back to Karrde and Mara's attendance at Leia's for dinner. "I suppose he does at that," Luke replied, his smile softening.

Artoo's dome turned towards him, and the droid peered at him with his one large mechanical eye. The droid warbled softly, a knowing and semi-amused sound that the translator said had no direct translation into basic.

"What?" Luke asked with a laugh as he fetched his Jedi blacks and set them out to change into after his sonic shower.

The droid cackled with electronic laughter, his dome spinning, then all three of his wheels set down on the floor. Artoo whistled a farewell and rolled towards the door, dragging the last of Luke's bags behind him.

Luke peered at the translator, but it wasn't any help. He shook his head with some bemusement. Artoo could be enigmatic at times, and this was one of those times apparently.

He made quick use of the sonic shower and dressed, then hesitated as he considered breakfast options. _You could call Mara,_ his mind whispered, but Luke immediately decided not to do that, no matter how tempting it was. If he woke her just because of his desire for her company, she might hold a grudge—and he already knew she could hold grudges for a long, long time. _Besides_ , he reminded himself, _she's not that far removed from hating you._

However, not sharing her company didn't mean he couldn't enjoy their favorite breakfast locale.

It was a quick airspeeder trip from his apartment in the palace to the Adarian Building. The servers recognized him (that was impossible to avoid absent a disguise or liberal Force use, neither of which appealed to him), but one of the reasons why the Adarian Building had become his favorite since Mara introduced him to it was the staff's professionalism. Yes, he was Jedi Luke Skywalker, but this establishment was used to serving dignitaries of all kinds and its servers went out of their way not to make a scene, which he appreciated.

They sat him near the window, overlooking the Senate Building, as always cast in the shadow of the Imperial Palace at this hour.

His Force sense alerted him to her presence before anything else. A familiar mind, wary but resolved, gleaming in the Force like a beacon. His ability to sense her had grown, he realized; there were a handful of presences he could recognize instantly, even at a distance, and Mara's was as identifiably brilliant as Leia's. Was that because of her increased strength in the Force? Or simply because they had spent so much time together of late?

Mara talked to the maitre'd, who obviously recognized her, and then was allowed to make her way towards him. She pulled out the chair across from him and settled into it, her expression oddly neutral. The sensation of nervousness and resolve persisted, though he could feel her trying to shield it.

"Good morning," he greeted her softly. Behind him, the morning sun cast light over them both; her red-gold hair gleamed gold.

"Good morning," she replied. She looked slightly disheveled, he noticed; as if she'd either been up late the night before or woken up early that morning. His mind flicked back to the forest on Myrkr, and her steadily deteriorating state as she had refused to sleep night after night.

But she didn't look anywhere near that tired this morning, and there was no hate in her eyes.

"Artoo has moved my X-wing to the _Wild Karrde._ Last I saw him he was dragging my bag to the hangar."

Mara smiled, her lips softening. "You're not overworking him, are you?"

"Concerned for my droid's welfare?" Luke relaxed back into his chair, a smile blossoming on his face. "That's a new attitude."

"In hindsight he was less trouble on Myrkr than you were," she mused. She pointed a finger at him mock-accusingly. "He wasn't the one who crashed that Skipray."

Luke chuckled. "Guilty as charged. But, in my defense, I _was_ being chased at the time."

Mara smirked. "It's all my fault then is it? Don't forget, I saved your life in the first place."

"I haven't," Luke replied softly, letting his gratitude touch his Force sense. He could tell the moment she felt it, the tightening of her lips, then the reluctant acceptance of the emotion. She wasn't going to say it out loud, not then, perhaps not ever, but the returning sense of gratefulness was more revealing than any words could have been.

The banter came to an abrupt halt as time seemed to slow to a crawl.

He was pretty sure Mara felt it too; he could sense the trepidation in her emotions, a quiver of uncertainty in her Force sense. She responded to it more decisively than he did—by pulling an item out of one of her pockets and placing it down in the middle of the table.

Luke furrowed his brow as he picked it up. He turned the object over in his hands, recognizing it immediately. "A blaster scope?" He peered at her over the object, his eyebrows lifting in surprise. "You know I told you I don't carry my blaster anymore."

Mara wagged a finger at him. "And I told you that you should," she replied firmly. "If you don't, that—" she pointed at the scope "—will go to waste, and I spent all night looking for the right one for a DL-44."

"I didn't even pack it," Luke pointed out, but the corner of his mouth curled. _All night?_

She smirked smugly at him. "Yes, you did," she assured him. "I told your droid to pack it for you."

Artoo's teasing earlier suddenly made a lot more sense.

Mara reached out to pluck the scope from him. "If what you said about the modifications you and Han made to your blaster are true," she peered at him through the scope, "this should let you take full advantage of your range modifications, and should serve as a good replacement for your bulky macrobinoculars." She handed it back. "And it comes with night vision and infra-red, not to mention image enhancement." Her hand lingered over the scope. "It wasn't cheap," she added pointedly.

He laughed and nudged her hand reluctantly away then closed his hand over the scope. He tucked it into one of the pockets of his tunic. "You've made your point," he relented wryly. "I'll bring the blaster."

Mara looked very self-satisfied. "You're right, you will. Also, you're paying for breakfast." She yawned and offered him a tired smile.

Luke suddenly didn't want to leave Coruscant. Leaving Coruscant seemed like a horrible idea.

Mara quirked an eyebrow at him. "What?" she asked.

He debated the wisdom of saying the words only after they'd already slipped out. "I'm going to miss you, Mara" he said almost apologetically, his voice clinging to her name.

Mara laughed in surprise. He could feel her astonishment, and her disbelief—and her inadequately hidden reciprocation of the sentiment. "You're going to _miss_ me? I wanted to _kill_ you, Skywalker."

"But you didn't," he replied, his voice firm and reassuring, "and I'm still in one piece."

"Yeah, well, you better stay that way," Mara countered firmly. "I'd hate to have bought that electro-scope for nothing."

"I'll be careful," he reassured her.

She hesitated, then nodded. He could sense her awkward concern and a not insignificant amount of something he'd describe as... nervousness... in anyone else.

_Protectiveness?_

He could feel her push past the moment firmly, refusing to linger over it. "Well, since you're going to be traveling with Karrde, I should warn you about the crew," she said. "They may not knock you out and lock you up again, but I guarantee they'll try to prank you. Aves is gone, so let's start with Dankin…"

* * *

The freighter that Fliry Vorru and his entourage were traveling in had worn many names over its long history. It seemed that the ship's original name had been the _Lefler's Rose,_ given the long-since worn over engraving on the bulkhead in the lounge, but there was a dizzying array of false IDs stashed in one of the ship's hidden compartments. They weren't using any of them, of course; Eliezer had worked up a new one (and a fake flight plan, and a series of fake HoloNet transmissions that would 'prove' the flight plan was real in the event anyone thought to check).

Vorru had forgotten how prolific the Drall could be. The freighter's cover established, he was now working on their individual cover IDs, complete with disguises, electronic records for both planetary citizenship and banking, and sufficient personal histories to fool a background check. And he'd managed to nearly beat Vorru in dejarik. Twice.

"You realize you're going to have to ask him sooner or later," Eliezer said without looking up. "I can't finalize his disguise or his personal history until I see his face, and it certainly isn't wise for him to wander around Coruscant with that mask on. It's too identifiable." He did glance up now, but only for a moment. "I suppose we can find him a suit of Mandalorian armor, that's just _barely_ common enough that I can whip something together, but it won't stand up to too much scrutiny."

The Tevas-kaar had, so far, not removed either his armor or his helm. In fact, Vorru and Eliezer had seen almost nothing of him since they'd come aboard the _Lefler's Rose._ He'd simply closed himself away in one of the guest rooms and vanished, emerging only to use the refresher or fetch one of the freeze-dried flash-meals that their pilot laughingly called "food."

"Tavira didn't say much about him," he admitted. "I know he's sworn to her service and she has no qualms about his personal loyalty, but who he is, where he's from, the extent of his skills… she said that he'd be able to handle anything we threw at him, short of maybe Luke Skywalker himself."

"You haven't seen him in action," Eliezer waved a datacard at him, and Vorru reached out and took it. It was his cover's backstory and picture. He was going to need to change his hair… "I have. He never flinched while we escaped, dealt with every threat we ran into in seconds."

"I have seen him in action, actually," Vorru replied. "Although only briefly, on Kessel. He was impressive. And if we're not careful he may have to deal with Luke Skywalker, my understanding is that he's living on Coruscant and helping organize the New Republic government."

Eliezer scoffed, shaking his head and tsking softly. His beady eyes focused on his computer and his claws clacked away on the keyboard. "Republic government. It's a contradiction in terms," the Drall muttered, his words (and bitter tone) echoing dozens of discussions they'd had over the years, dating back decades. Eliezer was no fan of the Empire—it's rabid anti-alien bias had seen to that—but he'd always maintained that the Empire (or something like it) had been inevitable for centuries. "If that is the case, then it's even more important that we have airtight false identities," the Drall continued. "I assume a run in with a Jedi is not in our intended plans."

"Assuredly not," Vorru replied firmly. "Actually, if at all possible, I'd very much rather not come to blows with anyone while we're on Coruscant."

Eliezer's beady eyes fixed him with a stare. "I don't believe that any more than you do," he countered. "Do you really think that Black Sun is going to roll over and let you take over its operations without so much as a fight?"

"If the ruling Vigos are wise, yes. If not…" Vorru shrugged. "I did say I'd _rather_ it not come to that, not that I _believed_ it wouldn't."

"Hmm," Eliezer hummed disbelievingly, then coughed. The Drall hunched over, coughing, then leaned back in his chair and pounded his chest as he recovered. "I'm getting old," he muttered dourly, stroking his claws over his fur to smooth it, then going back to work.

Vorru chuckled softly. "We got old long ago."

"Hush. I know that," Eliezer muttered without looking up. "I'm trying to pretend it's not true." He coughed, his snout wrinkling with annoyance. "Rather unsuccessfully, I'm afraid."

Vorru turned his mind again to the problem of the Tevas-kaar. He wondered idly if Grand Moff Tarkin had ever had this kind of problem with Lord Vader. Probably not; Vorru was under the impression that Vader had been unable to remove his armor for reasons of health, The Tevas-kaar's armor was not heavy enough to be used for that purpose, which meant that it was meant for intimidation and defense—and, perhaps, anonymity.

He wished he'd been able to elicit more information from Tavira about where she'd found him and the exact nature of her hold over him, but the would-be Pirate Queen was ruthless in her refusal to discuss it, saying only that his loyalty was "absolute" and that the Tevas-kaar could be relied upon without question. Unfortunately, Vorru had only Tavira's word for that, and he knew better than to trust her word alone. Even more unfortunately, he needed the Tevas-kaar for what would come next. He needed his own Vader to smash and intimidate his enemies, at least long enough to establish his dominance. Once his dominance was secure, he could turn them against one another and rule by division, but until then he needed the unquestioning, unstoppable hammer.

The Tevas-kaar had proved he _could_ do it on Kessel, at least on a small scale. Vorru had no idea if he could or would do it on the larger scale that he would require on Coruscant. But that was all right. One did not become Moff of Corellia without accepting a certain degree of risk.

Vorru exited the lounge and headed down the curved interior corridor until he found the Tevas-kaar's chosen quarters. He rapped on the door. There was no response, so he knocked on it a second time.

The door opened and he found himself standing in the Tevas-kaar's gleaming bronze shadow, brown eyes peering down at him through the eyes of the white d'oemir bear mask. Vorru refused to start, and he refused to be cowed by the difference in their heights. _I've been short all my life and never let it stop me before._ "Tevas-kaar."

"Moff Vorru," the Tevas-kaar replied with his resonant voice. "We have not yet arrived on Coruscant. Do you require something?"

"I do," Vorru nodded. "Eliezer is preparing our identities for arrival on Coruscant. I'm afraid he cannot complete the process unless he has more information about," he nodded up at the much taller man, "you and your appearance. Unfortunately, if you attempt to go through Coruscant security wearing your armor and mask, you will… create a bit of a stir."

There was a certain stiffness to the Tevas-kaar's utter lack of motion. Then his large, bronzed shoulders heaved with a sigh. "Very well," he agreed grudgingly. "If it is _absolutely_ necessary."

Vorru led him carefully back towards the freighter's lounge, where Eliezer was still hard at work. The Drall could work and work and work, with the kind of unerring focus that no human could match. "I'm afraid we'll need a holo of your appearance," Vorru said, adding as much apology to his tone as he could. _This is a Force user,_ he reminded himself. _He'll know if you're not being genuine._

There was a moment's hesitation from the tall figure, then he reached to the sides of his head and unbuckled his mask. He removed it slowly, holding it in one hand, then pushed back the coiled helm.

His hair was shock-white, the kind of white hair that would have been the envy of many an Imperial aristocrat, cut in a close buzz. His visage was not so aged as an aristocrat's, however, but his skin was leathery, with a lined, boxy face and wide square jaw covered with a light layer of almost invisible stubble.

Eliezer hobbled out of his chair and used a holo-imager to take a few holos. The Tevas-kaar watched him with a void expression, the corner of his mouth tightening a bit. "Do you have a preference for your pseudonym?" Eliezer asked cautiously as he returned to his chair, lifting himself up into it and relaxing as his claws tapped on the computer keyboard.

"You can call me whatever would be appropriate," the Tevas-kaar replied. Vorru and Eliezer both watched him, but no more information was forthcoming.

Vorru sighed to himself silently. Working with the Tevas-kaar was going to be difficult if he insisted on acting more like a droid than a person. But he didn't have any obvious avenue for drawing the Tevas-kaar out of his social isolation, and pushing was as likely (probably more likely) to backfire as it was to succeed. It could wait. "I'm sure Eliezer will find something appropriate," he conceded.

Taking that as a dismissal, the Tevas-kaar departed again, already re-attaching his mask.

"Sociable," Eliezer said after the door was securely closed.

"I've known a few men like him over the years," Vorru said. "I wish Tavira had been more forthcoming about the terms of his service. Is he so taciturn because it is an obligation, or is it a personality trait?" Vorru sat across from Eliezer and rested his hands together on the table. "And how did he come by his Force training?"

"He was taught by a Jedi, of course," Eliezer said, peering at his screen as he put together the Tevas-kaar's identity packet. "Let's see… Rasmus Damask, from Corellia. That way you can do the talking for him, if it becomes necessary."

"A Jedi? Palpatine killed all the Jedi."

"I never believed that," Eliezer replied. "And clearly it can't have been true, with Luke Skywalker running around the galaxy now. Someone must have trained _him_. The Jedi were resourceful, surely some of them survived."

Vorru shook his head. "But why would a Jedi apprentice end up working with Leonia Tavira?"

Eliezer laughed, a sound which ended less enthusiastic than it started, with coughing and wincing. "Why would either of _us_ end up working with Leonia Tavira?" he asked dryly.

That, Vorru thought, was a fair point.

* * *

The arrival in-system was done with pinpoint precision. The pilot Tavira had loaned them—the same man who had shuttled Vorru up from Kessel, and pulled the skillful landing during their rescue of Eliezer, coincidentally, for which Vorru was grateful—knew his business and knew how to play the part of a bored freighter captain. So well, in fact, that Vorru suspected that the man had at one point been just that.

"Coruscant Control, this is the freighter _Puckish Allegory_ out of Corellia, requesting permission to land," the pilot said in a Talusan accent. "We're looking for a landing in Argosy District, if possible. We can wait." He thumbed off the ship's communicator, glancing back at Vorru. "Our identities will hold up going through customs?"

Vorru nodded confidently. "No need to be concerned about that." Even as they were speaking, Eliezer was accessing Coruscant's HoloNet node and ensuring that the customs computers would both expect and know them by the time they were landing.

The pilot did not look so certain, but he also didn't object. "You're the boss," he agreed, turning back to the freighter's controls. The comm clicked, and he thumbed it back on.

" _Puckish Allegory_ , we can give you a landing berth in Argosy District," a brisk, female voice said over the comm. "We're transmitting berth information and your directed landing route to you now. Do not deviate from the path," she instructed them firmly.

"Confirmed, Coruscant Control," the pilot said back, again with his brisk accent. Vorru wondered idly if the man was adopting the Talusan accent as part of his identity because Eliezer had told him to, or if it was his own affectation. Either way, hearing it brought back fond memories—Talus was another of the Corellia system's many habitable worlds. "Glad you could serve us so quickly. _Puckish Allegory_ making its approach."

The freighter stirred as the pilot accelerated towards Coruscant, the gleaming mass of endless city seeming to glow as they approached. There was a rustle and Vorru glanced back as the Tevas-kaar approached, his expression blank as he watched over Vorru's shoulder. He was wearing the civilian clothes they had procured for him, but he would still stand out in a crowd

Vorru almost turned away, but there was something about the Tevas-kaar's expression. His eyes tightened slightly, his lips firming together. His breathing slowed, and then his eyes closed and his hands clenched into fists.

"Are you all right?" Vorru asked carefully.

The Tevas-kaar nodded. "Yes," he said, visibly relaxing, though his tension did not fully fade. "Adequate."

* * *

The _Wild Karrde_ main cargo hold was sealed up, Luke's X-wing vanishing from sight within its confines. At the top of the ramp, Karrde and Mara were talking animatedly, and Karrde handed her a datapad—with final instructions for how to manage the Smugglers' Alliance in his absence, Luke guessed.

With the cargo hold sealed, the _Wild Karrde's_ crew started heading aboard the ship, while the landing pad's ground crew performed the final checks.

Artoo whistled at him, and Luke laughed. "Yes, it's much friendlier than it was the first time they brought us aboard," Luke agreed. He patted the astromech's dome, whose head swirled to look up at him, then back at the bulk freighter.

Mara and Karrde had finished their conversation; Mara nodded at her boss and trotted down the ramp. She looked slightly better rested than she had at breakfast; Luke assumed that was a product of the two cups of expensive caf he'd paid for. He smiled at her as she approached; her brisk pace slowed as she neared him.

She stopped awkwardly, her lip twitching as neither of them spoke.

He wasn't sure what to say. Clearly, she wasn't either. He wondered if she'd let him hug her. He rather doubted it.

"I don't know how to do this," she said suddenly, her eyes resolutely looking away, even as her words were pitched both quiet and meant to be heard. "I'm not … used to having friends."

He reached out and took her hand. She let him, her fingers wrapping around his as she turned towards him, still not making eye contact. Her gaze flicked up to his, then away again, and in that moment he could see the uncertainty, the confusion, and most of all the deep loneliness. Her sense in the Force tightened as she felt his response, his cold rage at Palpatine, his protectiveness and empathy. His deep and profound care. "Mara…"

She squeezed his hand hard. "Take care of yourself, Skywalker," she whispered, and he heard the words she didn't say. _I'll miss you, too._

He used their joined hands to turn her towards him until they were facing one another, peering down at her. He waited patiently until she tentatively looked up, her piercing green eyes laden with uncertainty. She knew what he was going to do before he did it, he could feel her tense but not pull away, and he wrapped his arms around her and brought her in against his chest.

He could feel the moment her muscles relaxed and she leaned into the embrace; could sense when her eyes shut as she accepted the display of physical affection. He suspected that she could count on one hand the number of times she had been hugged since Palpatine had ripped her away from her family, and he offered it to her freely.

It didn't linger for more than a few seconds. By mutual acclamation they parted, the embrace ending a few seconds before she released his hand.

He buried his emotion as deeply as he could, not because it wasn't real, or because he didn't want her to know it, but because he knew that she wasn't ready to hear it yet. Wasn't ready to accept it. Certainly wasn't ready to reciprocate it. But in that moment, torn between the desire to sing it to the heavens, or to bury it deep underground until the time was right to dig it up, Luke Skywalker knew one fact he hadn't yet admitted to himself when he'd woken up that morning.

 _I am in trouble._ Despite the thought, Luke couldn't wipe the smile off his face as he strode up _Wild Karrde's_ ramp with a spring in his step. _I am in so, so much trouble._

* * *

Luke and Mara seemed to have forgotten that the bridge viewports of the _Wild Karrde_ had a clear view of the hangar.

Talon Karrde turned and looked at his crew. Faughn, Dankin, and Chin each got a long gaze, one that lasted well after eye contact had been established. "If any of you," he started firmly, "mention this to Skywalker or _especially_ to Mara, I will have you buried in a hole so deep it'll make the Spice Mines of Kessel look like a Chandrilan beach resort. After that I'll let Mara do whatever she wants to you. Are we clear?"

Faughn just nodded. Chin was wearing a silly little smile, but while the older man liked to needle, he knew when to push and when to keep his mouth shut. Dankin recoiled away from the firm certitude in Karrde's eyes. "Clear, Boss," he said.

Karrde let the silence linger to drive home his point.

Once he was _quite_ sure there would be no misunderstandings, he nodded. "And, I'll add, that all the bets on them are already in. If you want to make a new bet, you'll have to ante up again. No last minute changes based on new information." There was a groan that echoed through the bridge, but it faded quickly at his raised eyebrow. He waited until it was entirely gone. "Good. Once the outer doors are sealed and Jedi Skywalker is belted in, take us up. Dankin, I want us on the quickest route to Rendili."

"Got it, Boss."

The _Wild Karrde's_ engines hummed as the ship lifted up off the ground. Unlike the trip in, Dankin was at the helm, and Faughn was in the co-pilot's seat while also managing the ship's comm chatter with Coruscant Control. _I'm going to need to hire another pilot to replace Mara,_ Karrde thought. There was regret in the thought, but more than that there was a calm acceptance, and even a bit of happiness.

Luke came through the door to the bridge and slid into one of the empty seats, and in response the _Wild Karrde_ shuddered against gravity and began its climb towards orbit (much more slowly than its descent into Coruscant had been). "All settled?" Karrde asked him.

Luke nodded. "Ready," he agreed, and Karrde recognized the same tone of serious focus that he'd seen on the Jedi's face so many times since they'd met.

"Good," Karrde agreed. "Dankin, take us out if you would. Faughn, send my compliments to Coruscant Control."

Coruscant vanished, replaced by the planet's busy sky, lines of airspeeders in neat rows traveling through the city and spaceships rising and lowering from orbit. The _Wild Karrde_ passed by one of the Skyhooks, gleaming brightly, and then started to pick up speed as it passed out of the busiest layers of the planetary orbit.

Karrde glanced at Luke, and found the Jedi staring out the window with a tight, uncertain expression on his face. "Everything all right?"

The Jedi shook himself, then shrugged. "Yes. I just thought I sensed something, but it's gone now." Luke relaxed into the chair.

"Well, I've learned to trust Jedi instincts," he replied, thinking more of Mara than Luke. "If there is anything wrong, please, do tell us."

"I will," Luke promised.

"In the meantime, there is something else that we should discuss." Karrde allowed his expression and tone to both become apologetic. "I'm afraid that there's going to be a slight delay before we arrive at Ukio. Before you become irritated with me, know that I discussed the delay with General Cracken and he agreed that it would be worth a few days to make a quick stop."

Luke swiveled his chair towards Karrde. In the background, Dankin announced the jump to hyperspace, and the familiar disorientation of the lightspeed jump clearly gave Luke a moment's pause.

Karrde wasn't really concerned about the Jedi's reaction. He couldn't say he knew Luke well, but Karrde trusted his ability to get a feel for personalities, and vengefulness, or even grudge-holding, were not likely to be consequences of this slight manipulation.

"I see," Luke replied calmly. "Perhaps you should explain the nature of this delay, then?" The corner of Luke's mouth quirked up. "Something less than respectable?"

"Oh, it most certainly is not respectable, but I'm quite sure that the New Republic will not object," Karrde corrected. "We're going to make a brief stop on Rendili. I need your help… with a theft." His lips firmed in a small, confident smirk. "If we are successful, what we will appropriate from the Empire should give General Bel Iblis everything that he needs to recapture Ukio."

"I see," Luke said again, thoughtfully. "You do realize that Rendili is Imperial-held, and after Corellia probably the most heavily guarded Imperial system in the Core?"

Karrde leaned back in his chair, steepling his hands together. "Oh yes. Of that, I am quite aware."


	14. Chapter Thirteen

The _Lefler's Rose_ sat, inconspicuous, in a cheap landing bay far from the Imperial Palace and the seat of the New Republic government. Coruscant was a whole universe of its own, so large and so densely populated that the New Republic hadn't even tried to organize and run the planet itself. In truth, the New Republic's presence on the planet sometimes felt like an island, isolated in and around the Palace District and on the highest levels of Coruscant's metropolitan canyons. Go too far outside that District, or descend down to the lower levels, and Coruscant became autonomous, with billions of people living their lives as they had under the Empire and the Old Republic.

Vorru had been an integral part of that world, once. Not that long ago, even. His tendrils of power and authority and fear and respect had snaked through Coruscant's impenetrable web of power, both legal and illegal (get far enough down and the two were often difficult to differentiate). As he had as Moff of Corellia, Vorru had entwined all the elements of influence and used them to control the people who needed to be controlled, free the people who needed to be freed.

He had respected the way Palpatine had always done the same, and Vorru's ability to emulate Palpatine (and in some ways, in this small regard even surpass him, he thought proudly), had probably been why Palpatine had finally eliminated Vorru as a threat.

The Tevas-kaar had emerged from his room on the ship only occasionally since their arrival, days before, while Eliezer had slowly extended his holographic tendrils into Coruscant's computers. First the Drall had compromised the system's HoloNet, and from there it's traffic control computers. Eliezer had a gift for system infiltration, steadily finding one weakness after another through Coruscant's myriad web of integrated networks. Searching.

Vorru had spent the days productively himself. His network of alliances and the memory of his authority was not so far gone to be forgotten, especially in Coruscant's criminal underworld. Black Sun, the oldest and most powerful criminal organization in the galaxy, was centered on Coruscant (just as the Empire and Republic had been; _everyone_ came to Coruscant eventually), and Vorru steadily, surreptitiously collected information about its current operations and leadership. He had come to Coruscant for two reasons, and Black Sun was one.

There was a tiny voice whispering on the other side of his comm. "We've just been given notice," the Coruscanti accent said, hushed and staticky. Communications on Coruscant could be tricky, what with all the structures and people crammed into every square kilometer. "Also, there's a rumor floating around the underground that Fliry Vorru has escaped from Kessel," the voice continued. "The Vigos are nervous that he might make a play to retake control of Black Sun. I haven't seen so much commotion at the executive level since Savan made her play for the organization a few years back."

Vorru smiled thinly. Commotion was good. "Vorru was competent," he said smoothly, Eliezer's whipped-together voice synthesizer changing his voice and accent. "But hardly worth commotion."

"I'm not sure," the voice replied. "Don't spread this around, but I think Acib has never been happy about the fact that Vorru is still alive at all. I think he tried to have him assassinated after he was returned to Kessel to take him out of the picture, but we never got confirmation of his death."

 _No, they wouldn't have_ , Vorru thought smugly. _Those assassins didn't do so well after they breached Kessel's atmosphere. Not with the tons of explosive I had planted under their landing pad._

"He seems convinced that Vorru will come here and try to take control of the organization," the voice continued. "The rest of us aren't so certain… and many of us aren't that scared by the possibility anyway. There's still a lot of respect for Vorru in these parts. People remember how well he ran both Corellia and its criminal underworld. Acib is concerned that if Vorru presents himself as an alternative, that the other Vigos will turn on him and flock to Vorru's banner again."

"Would they?" Vorru asked calmly.

"Hard to say. From what I remember of Vorru, he'd come with an offer, not just a threat. It would depend on what he has to give."

Vorru nodded to himself. "Perhaps I should send my own representative to this meeting of the Vigos. Do you know when and where it'll be held?"

There was a rustle on the other side of the comm. "Sure, I can forward you the information." There was a pause, then Vorru's comm beeped. He briefly plugged it into his datapad and smiled as he saw the needed information. "Sent."

"Thank you, Roeder," Vorru said, the voice synthesizer translating it into a slick Muunilist accent.

"Sure. And remember, you didn't get any of this from me." The comm click off.

Vorru examined the information that Roeder had sent him. It was worth the expenditure of credits - most of what was left of Vorru's supply. A Muunilist banker could afford to pay well for information, and paying well for information was the only thing that had opened Roeder's normally tight lips.

He stretched, smiling to himself. If all else went to plan, his temporary bankruptcy would be just that. If not, there were plenty of ways he could raise a tidy sum of credits quickly. More than one well-heeled member of the New Republic's aristocracy had secrets they would pay to keep, and there were numerous members of the Imperial aristocracy still on Coruscant who would pay even better to keep their previous Imperial ties relegated to forgotten history. Blackmail came with certain risks, though, that Vorru would prefer to avoid taking.

"Tonight?" Eleizer's voice came from the other side of the room.

"Tonight," Vorru agreed.

"Sooner than we hoped," Eliezer pointed out. "It would be better if we could take care of the other half of our objectives here before attempting to satisfy these." He coughed, leaning back in his not-quite-comfortable chair, his claws stroking its arms gently. "As it stands, you won't have very much to offer."

"I'll have enough," Vorru countered. "From all reports, the Vigos are chafing under Acib's leadership. If I give them a way to get out from under him, they'll take it. Especially if I combine the offer I make them with a sufficient display of force." He glanced down the hall towards the Tevas-kaar's chambers.

Eliezer coughed some more. "Mmm," he hummed as he recovered, wiping his mouth with the back of his furred hand, his beady black eyes narrowing. "Well, if I'm to achieve that second set of objectives, I'm afraid I'm going to need more direct access. I can't do it all from here."

Vorru's eyes turned towards him, a frown crossing his face. "You've always been able to breach any computer network remotely," he said, dark suspicion crossing his gaze. Eliezer was his friend—of sorts—but that didn't mean the Drall wouldn't betray him if he thought it was in his best interest…

The Drall slicer laughed, a hacking sound. "You've never asked me to penetrate Ysanne Isard's intelligence net before. I wouldn't be able to penetrate NRI either. The intelligence types are usually much too competent and cautious to leave the kinds of vulnerabilities that Senate aides do." He tapped the keyboard. "But, it's not all bad news. Isard seems to have set up a network of safehouses all around the planet. Once I found one, I was able to find the rest, they've got their own internal network. But to penetrate all their layers of security, I'm going to need direct access. We'll have to pick one of the sites and infiltrate it—and, most unfortunately, I'll have to come with you. The good news is they seem to be abandoned." He waved a datapad at Vorru. "I've put together a list of the best targets."

Vorru walked across and took the pad, examining it quickly. "Do you need any help, or can you do this on your own?"

Eliezer shrugged. "I should be able to manage on my own, if I'm left undisturbed."

The datapad listed a number of sites, some more remote than others. A handful were in particularly not-remote locations. There was even one in the Imperial Palace itself, one of the Palace towers, though Eliezer had taken that one off the list as impractical. "No, we'll do it together," Vorru said after a moment. "After we've got backup from Black Sun and when the Tevas-kaar can protect us as we work. In the meantime, I want you to pick one of these sites… whichever one seems like it would be least likely to attract the Republic's attention, and set up a half-dozen escape plans in case something goes wrong." He frowned at Eliezer. "I don't want us to underestimate General Cracken. If you were able to find this network of Isard's safehouses, then he might be able to also."

"It's possible," Eliezer conceded. "They do seem defunct, but all right." He leaned up and over his keyboard, his claws clacking away.

Vorru frowned. There were all too many ways this could go wrong, he knew. But really, what did any of them have to lose? He left Eliezer to his slicing and went to fetch the Tevas-kaar. It was time for the man to play the role that Vorru needed him to play.

* * *

The Tevas-kaar was decidedly uncomfortable out of his armor and without his mask, but there was nothing to be done about it.

One of the common misperceptions about Black Sun was that it operated strictly in the shadows, under the radar of all the galaxy's legitimate authorities. When people thought of Black Sun—those that didn't know it intimately—they thought of gangs operating in shadowy twilight, or dark figures looming in backgrounds, or all the theatrical imagery nonsense that many of Black Sun's historic leaders had long cultivated. But Black Sun had existed for thousands of years, and the organizations that preceded Black Sun had existed for thousands of years before that. It operated in the shadows, yes, but it also had ties aplenty to business and politics all around the galaxy, and when its leaders met, they often did so publicly.

The Argosy District was on the far side of Coruscant from the Senate District. As ancient as all of Coruscant's primary metropolitan and business centers, the Argosy District featured some of the tallest skyscrapers the ecumenopolis had to offer, and they were stuffed full of businessmen and politicians who often straddled the thin line between legal and illegal. Under the Empire that distinction had grown even thinner as Imperial politicians and military officers had used all kinds of illegal means to hide away their mountains of ill-gotten wealth where the Imperial tax collectors couldn't get to it.

Palpatine had allowed it, up to a point. If ever one took more than they were implicitly permitted, though, one of his agents would find them, and deal with them quietly. Their disappearance was enough of a message for the rest.

The Tevas-kaar frowned, memories flooding back to him. The disgruntlement, or the fury, or the fear…

Different places often had different emotional resonance. The Jhunia planes had been desolate, with little in the way of human life, leaving just a steady, serene solitude, while Yumfla had a mundane, familial joy once you got far enough away from the Imperial garrison. The emotions of the Argosy District were a cacophonous mess. Greed and lust and fear and inadequacy and desperation and glory all clawed at each other. With a breath, he reduced the sensitivity of his empathic sense, but they continued to hum in the background of his mind as the shuttle approached their destination.

Eyrie Tower was the center of the Argosy District, an enormous structure, opaque walls stretching up against the backdrop of Coruscant's setting sun, transitioning into transparisteel and elaborate buttresses that combined architectural styles both pre-Republican and post-Imperial, and then a large flat landing pad on the roof.

Traffic around it was busy, a steady stream of aircars landing and departing. The Black Sun leadership meetings often took place in plain sight (up until you actually got to the conference table), and the current Underlord of Black Sun, Y'ull Acib, believed more than most that it was best not to hew too close to the shadows. That was convenient, as it ensured that their approach would not be immediately concerning. Their _landing,_ however, would draw unwanted attention.

Vorru was not wearing his Moff's uniform, but a simple black pseudo-military tunic and jacket, trimmed with gold. That was a statement, the Tevas-kaar knew. Wearing black and gold was a sign of leadership, of dominance. But, far worse from Acib's perspective, was the scarf Vorru had added to the outfit; a deep, royal purple. Vorru's outfit was reflective of a past Underlord of Black Sun, its most successful in centuries: the Prince Xizor. Xizor had amassed a fortune, rumored to be of the same magnitude as the Emperor and Lord Vader's personal fortunes, and he had done it by commanding Black Sun's criminal and legitimate business enterprises with a single-minded drive and cunning—and charisma—that few could match.

Vorru was one of the few. Him arriving at this meeting dressed as he was would be perceived as no less than a declaration of war. But then, it _was_ a declaration of war, and the Tevas-kaar was going to have to fight it.

The shuttle swooped towards the tower, over the archaic stone buttresses and towering glass, descending towards the neat grid of parked airspeeders. They settled down between the markings, close to the entrance to the tower, and the shuttle rocked gently as it touched down.

"Are you ready?" Vorru asked him.

The question was slightly insulting. He favored it with a minimal response, the barest of acknowledging nods.

That was enough for Vorru, whose thin, predatory smile was eager with anticipation. "Very well." He settled the scarf around his neck, Coruscant's evening air providing just enough of a chill to justify its use as more than a prop. "After you, Tevas-kaar," Vorru bowed slightly.

They exited the shuttle, leaving their pilot behind in case they needed to make a quick escape. There was already a small team of security guards approaching them casually, but with a slight military gait. Black Sun enforcers; probably off-duty members of the Coruscant Constabulary at that, the Tevas-kaar thought with distaste. The leader, wearing a Sergeant's insignia on his collar, held up the palm of his hand. "Stop, and announce yourselves," he ordered.

"We are residents of the tower," Vorru said smoothly, his scarf fluttering in the evening breeze. The former Moff had his hands folded behind him, his chin held high with not the slightest concern betrayed by his almost regal expression.

"Your vessel is not registered to any residents of Eyrie Tower," the man responded skeptically. He waved forward another of the security guards, who secured his blaster in his holster with a click before approaching, intent on searching them. "You will state your names and your reason for being here at once."

"I'm sorry," Vorru's voice was apologetic without sounding too apologetic, "the shuttle is a recent purchase and we haven't had time to formally register it. We do have the purchase paperwork aboard, if you want to come see it—"

"You will state your names and your reasons for being here," the Sergeant repeated, his voice hard. The third guard brought his blaster rifle up to cover them—the Tevas-kaar could see that it was set to stun, as the guard's companion reached him and Vorru. Vorru's eyes flicked up to his, and—

Reaching out with the Force, the Tevas-kaar twitched the guard's blaster slightly to the right and pushed back the trigger. The weapon erupted and the stun blast struck the guard reaching for Vorru in the back, the coronal effects catching the Tevas-kaar and sending an unpleasant, numbing sensation through his left arm, his fingers tingling. The Sergeant was turning to stare at the guard whose blaster had just fired, his mouth parting to give a furious order; the guard was staring at his weapon in shock, and neither of them was looking at the right person.

A holdout blaster popped into Vorru's hand and he shot them both, one quick, precisely aimed blaster bolt driving into each of them. The Sergeant fell, clutching at his chest and reaching for his wristcom as he struggled to breathe. The Tevas-kaar stepped on his hand, holding it to the permacrete surface as he expired. The final guard was still wearing his expression of surprise, but Vorru's bolt had struck him in the heart and killed him instantly.

Vorru calmly put his holdout back under his jacket. "Eliezer can cover for their absence for a while, but we don't know how often they have to check in. We should hurry," he said, unruffled.

The Tevas-kaar lifted his foot off the Sergeant's hand, then reached down and removed his wristcom. He attached it to his own wrist, tapped it to make sure it was working, and nodded his… if not agreement, then at least his obedience.

* * *

The trip from the landing pad to the Black Sun meeting site was not very complicated. Eliezer had scrambled the tower's computers before they arrived, leaving the surveillance equipment that normally watched every lift and every hallway seeing and remembering nothing but static, and turning most of the tower's guard droids into pliable, almost bizarrely friendly automatons that greeted everyone with the same dull lack of curiosity.

The conference room was inconspicuous. A normal, frequently used business space (much unlike the elaborate, intricately ornate spaces that Xizor had favored, back when Black Sun had been untouchable), the varied leaders of the organization were all present in the doors beyond. Eliezer had confirmed the arrival of all but one of the Black Sun vigos that now served—with varying degrees of reluctance—the Underlord Y'ull Acib.

Vorru and Acib had been prisoners together, on Kessel. They had escaped (of sorts) together. Eventually they parted ways, with Acib staying on Coruscant to run Black Sun, while Vorru served as Ysanne Isard's aide-de-camp (and functioning brain). Acib was ambitious, cunning, short-sighted, and desperately, loathsomely greedy. He also had always secretly been envious of Vorru, and Vorru had always expected Acib would eventually stab him in the back.

Under such circumstances, it was best to be the one doing the stabbing.

Vorru and the Tevas-kaar stopped in the hall outside the conference room, leaving two more subdued guards in their wake. The Tevas-kaar moved next to the door, closing his eyes and doing something with the Force that Vorru couldn't begin to understand. He was no less intimidating without his armor and mask, Vorru thought, but he also seemed less _otherworldly_ without them. "Are they in there," Vorru asked.

The Tevas-kaar nodded. "I sense eight presences," he said. "Two humans, six aliens of different races."

"There are always eight Vigos and the Underlord, according to Black Sun traditions," Vorru replied, "so that would mean one is absent, or present only holographically."

"They're agitated," the Tevas-kaar said, resting his hand on the door. "Arguing. Some of them are quite unnerved." He paused for a long moment, concentrating. "But there's no sense of imminent danger. I don't think they know we're here yet."

"Then we should intrude before they realize," Vorru mused with satisfaction. "Are you ready?"

The Tevas-kaar withdrew his hand from the door and straightened, bringing himself to his full, imposing height. "I am," he assented. His hands flexed as he brushed one over the lightsaber that hung from his belt, and the tall man's brown eyes darkened with focus.

"Excellent." Vorru smiled and pressed the door release.

"[—know as well as the rest of us that Black Sun's profits have never recovered from Xizor's demise]," a deep voice was saying in Huttese with furious tones. _Durga_ , Vorru thought. _Black Sun's second most powerful leader; the most powerful outside of the Galactic Core._

Inside the room were nine figures surrounding a table. At the head of the table was Acib, who looked as Vorru remembered him. White hair cut military short (though Acib had never served in a military), paired with flamboyantly bushy black eyebrows; high, ridged cheekbones and a dark, perpetually angry scowl that had long since been permanently etched into his face. Vorru wanted to say that Kessel had caused those lines, but Acib had them even before Kessel.

Along one side of the table were four Vigos. Lonay, a Twi'lek and one of their chief connections to the smuggler fringe, sat closest to Acib. He was a survivor and a coward and would let himself be blown whichever way the breeze carried him; Vorru categorized him immediately as not a threat. Next to him was Kreet'ah, a Kian'thar whose connections with the galaxy's shipbuilders ran deep; like all of his species, Kreet'ah was a natural empath who could sense confidence and fear. Clezo was next, the Rodian who served as Black Sun's personnel officer, responsible for hiring and… eliminating… Black Sun's membership, which quietly made him one of the most powerful people in the room. At the end was the glowing blue holographic form of Durga, the Hutt.

On the other side of the table were the other four Vigos. Wumdi and Sprax he recognized; both were old Black Sun hands (Sprax was a rival of Durga, and would likely side against him if given any opportunity). The remaining two, a human and a Quarren, Vorru didn't recognize. They must be the newest Vigos, both recruited since the last time Vorru had been in active circulation. While he did not know their faces, he was well enough informed to put a name to one face: the human had to be Roeder. Roeder, Vorru knew from experience, could be bought.

The room turned as he and the Tevas-kaar entered, men and aliens half-rising from their chairs in surprise, hands reaching for blasters. Vorru smiled, unconcerned, and the Tevas-kaar reached out a hand. Weapons flew through the air towards him; vibroblades and blasters alike smacking with force into the wall behind them; metal and permacrete cracking violently from the sudden impact. Ruined weapons fell to the floor.

The shock of it sent a stunned, disarmed silence through the room, and Vorru smiled confidently into the void. "Gentlemen," he bowed his head respectfully, but his grey eyes were hard and his lips bespoke ruthless certainty. "It is with the greatest of joys that I am here to be with you once again."

Durga—unsurprisingly, given the advantage of his distance from events—was the first to respond, even with the lag of the HoloNet. He laughed his slow, rolling Huttese laugh. "[So the rumors are true]," the Hutt said, his enormous, sluglike body shifting. "[The Corellian is not so dead as Acib would have us believe]."

Vorru lifted his chin, the gesture drawing attention to the purple scarf around his neck. "Did any of you really think I would be so easily restrained? That I did not have all I needed to control my own destiny? That Kessel would be able to hold me?"

"Vorru," Acib said, his voice low and gravelly and confident. If Vorru had not known him so well, he would have missed the slight quiver of fear, the subtle tremble of Acib's now-empty gun hand. "Welcome back to Coruscant."

"Thank you," Vorru replied, bowing his head mock-deferentially. "May I introduce you to my Tevas-kaar," he nodded his head to the Tevas-kaar's looming, powerful form, letting them all focus on the man; see his extended hand, which had lifted just as their weapons had been taken from them, and see the lightsaber hanging prominently from his belt. "I have a proposal for you all," Vorru interrupted their gazes once he was quite certain they had observed all he wished them to. "And you all know that I keep my word, and honor my bargains."

Acib stirred, opening his mouth to object, but was cut off by Roeder. "And what is this proposal," Roeder asked with his clipped Coruscanti accept. He was of medium height and build, nondescript in that typical handsome smuggler way. There was a hint of suspicion in his eyes, and Vorru let his eyes meet Roeder's for the briefest of instants, offering confirmation.

"We do not—" Acib objected, but Vorru cut him off.

"As you all no doubt know," Vorru spoke firmly, "when I was Moff of Corellia, Black Sun was at its most profitable. Government and profit were not at odds, but were as one." He clasped his hands together in a firm gesture that he knew would be especially communicative to some of the aliens around the table, for whom basic was not their first language. "I can and will restore that relationship, though it will take time and effort and perhaps," his eyes flicked to each person at the table, "sacrifice."

Acib started to object again and was interrupted again, this time by Kreet'ah. "Go on," the large Kian'thar said, and Vorru smiled to himself. That Kreet'ah had interrupted Acib meant he sensed Vorru's confidence and Acib's fear, and that would not go unnoticed by the others at the table.

"I know that Black Sun has waned since the death of Xizor. His heirs have not been equal to the lofty standards set by the Prince of House Sizhran," Vorru continued. "All of you have suffered as the New Republic has taken system after system, cracked down on your activities, enforced laws even the Old Republic had forgotten." He lifted his hands in a welcoming gesture, palms up. "Your fortunes have waned, your colleagues have gone independent, and many have joined Talon Karrde's new Smugglers' Alliance."

There was a ripple of discontent at that last.

"I can restore us," Vorru continued. "Restore our independence, or freedom, or sense of adventure and our profits. I can bring back what was lost with Xizor."

"How," Acib growled, standing now, his black eyebrows narrowed in a fury.

"Do you doubt me, Y'ull?" Vorru asked quietly. "Do you doubt the one who brought such prosperity to us all? Who made the galaxy safe for the rise of Black Sun under the Empire? Who set the stage for Xizor's reign?"

"The one who fell with Corellia? Who Palpatine locked in a cage? Who abandoned Black Sun to serve Isard like a leashed, domesticated sheep?" Acib countered.

Vorru could hear the desperation in Acib's voice. His eyes flicked to Kreet'ah, and knew that the empath could feel it was well. "And yet, here I am," Vorru replied. "Undiminished. Stronger than ever." He nodded subtly at the Tevas-kaar, and his smile widened even as his eyes hardened. He turned away from Acib, turning his attention to the other Vigos. It was time to drop all pretense. "I ask you for nothing," he said, "nothing but service that will make all of us stronger. I will not require tithes, I have no need of them. I will not require gifts as Xizor did, my ego requires no such stroking. I will require only loyalty and service; your wealth is your own, for the enrichment of us all."

The human, Roeder, crossed his arms. "What service is that?"

Acib was standing fully now, his expression a mix of fury and outrage. "I am the Underlord, Fliry, and you have no claim to—"

Vorru held up a finger and Acib's voice suddenly cut off in a sudden gasping choke. He reached for his throat as he sagged forward against the table, gagging; next to Vorru, the Tevas-kaar's forefinger and thumb slowly moved towards one another.

Vorru didn't make eye contact with any of the Vigos, walking around the table at a slow, ceremonial pace as the only sounds in the room were of Durga's holoemitter and Acib's slow choking. He stopped next to Acib, at the head of the table, and leaned towards the gasping man. "I have a claim to whatever I can take, Acib, as has always been the rule of Black Sun, is that not so?" He looked down the table now, gazing at each of the other eight Vigos. "Is that not so?"

Durga's Huttese laugh rolled over them.

It had been a long time since Vorru had held a room in the palm of his hand; the sensation was almost giddy. He leaned towards Acib, his lips against the man's ear as he whispered. "You should have come to get me, Y'ull. I would have made you rich. Instead, you will make me king."

It was done almost before anyone realized it; the vibroknife in Vorru's hand soaked with Acib's blood. Vorru was careful not to let any get onto his scarf; the purple would stain, but if it got onto his outfit it would be hidden easily enough by the black fabric. The corpse hit the floor and vanished under the table.

Vorru slowly took Acib's seat. "If we are to be restored," he said conversationally, his tone friendly, "we must start with two steps." He watched the other Vigos until they sat down once more, with varying degrees of reluctance. "First, we must regain that which was lost with Xizor's death. Second—" he waited until he was sure he had their full and undivided attention "—we must destroy the Smugglers' Alliance."

* * *

Vorru remained after the Vigos departed, one by one. Durga had been the most recalcitrant, but he too had accepted Vorru's leadership over the organization—although Vorru had no doubt that the Hutt would turn on him the moment he either sensed weakness or saw opportunity. The Hutt crime cartels had long had an erratic relationship with Black Sun, both treasured partner and frequent rival. That was all right with Vorru, though. He didn't need Durga's active participation, just his acquiescence, at least for now.

The others were more important, as they were more proximate. In particular, Vorru needed one: the newest one. He stopped Roeder before the only other human Vigo could exit. "Vigo Roeder, if you would. I have a request."

The Coruscanti native stopped, his expression both speculative and slightly wary.

Vorru would never trust him, of course. Not after it had been so easy to bribe the man with Muunilisti currency. But Roeder didn't know that, and Vorru still had use for him.

"What is it you need?" Roeder asked obediently.

"You are the sole Coruscanti Vigo," Vorru pointed out, folding his hands in his lap as he looked up at Roeder from his chair. "My time on Coruscant may well be brief," he continued, gratified to see the look of relief in Roeder's eyes at that news, "but while I am here, I have certain tasks that must be accomplished. To accomplish those tasks, I may require certain support. You seem best placed to provide that support."

"I may be," Roeder agreed, his eyes now gleaming with something other than speculation and wariness.

Avarice. Excellent.

"I will need a well-equipped team of mercenaries, or otherwise combat capable fighters, who will be willing to fight the New Republic in the event that becomes necessary. I am not sure that it will be, but it _may_ be, and as we all know, preparation is the root of all victory." Vorru smiled. "They will likely also need to be able to move unnoticed through Coruscant's security net, so that they do not themselves attract attention when the time comes." He brushed some invisible lint off his knee. "Can you provide what I need, Vigo Roeder?"

Roeder nodded slowly. "I believe I can, yes. It will not be costless. It will require me to use long-husbanded assets that, if lost, will not be easily replaced."

"I understand entirely," Vorru agreed. "Nonetheless, assets that are never used waste away slowly, lost to time."

Roeder inclined his head slightly. "They are there to be used."

Vorru smiled. "Excellent. I will send you more information in the morning. Good evening, Vigo Roeder."

Roeder inclined his head again, this time offering a slightly deeper bow, and retreated from the room, leaving Vorru alone with the Tevas-kaar, who watched him go with a sort of dismissive disinterest.

Roeder was a snake, Vorru thought. But snakes had their uses, at least from time to time. And in this case, it was exactly that Roeder _was_ a snake that made him useful. After all, a Vigo who wore the uniform of a Colonel in the Coruscant Constabulary was a snake used to living amongst a horde of Rihnessian mongooses, and it was exactly that kind of snake that Vorru needed.


	15. Chapter Fourteen

Captain Atril Tabanne sat back in her chair, her legs crossed as she examined the plot. There were her allied ships: the Interdictor cruiser _Corusca Rainbow,_ which was effectively blocking off the hyperlane to Ukio, its powered gravity wells rudely yanking any vessels attempting to transit through it back into normal space. Four Mon Calamari cruisers and the Star Destroyer _Freedom_ were escorted by five _Katana_ Dreadnaughts led by Garm Bel Iblis' old flagship, _Peregrine._ Most important of all was the newly arrived _Endurance,_ first in a class of new fleet carriers and commanded by Admiral Bell. _Endurance_ would likely play host to most of the fleet group's starfighters. Atril felt a momentary pang at the idea of losing the Rogues and having to break in a less-experienced squadron and CO.

Her gaze moved past the friendlies to the unknowns. They'd stopped a dozen freighters in the last six hours. Any supplies that could be used to reinforce Ukio's defenses, or construct a new planetary industrial base, were forfeited and the ships turned around. Any Imperial vessels were impounded.

Ukio was an agri-world. For the last few thousand years, it had been one of the primary food production sites in the Albrion sector. That had made it Grand Admiral Thrawn's primary target during the second phase of his war against the New Republic; while Thrawn's armies of clones had not needed training, they did need to eat. But its strict specialization in agriculture meant the planet had little other industry, and had long been reliant on galactic trade to maintain its prosperity.

Atril didn't like the idea of squeezing around the planet's neck until the Empire agreed to let it go, but at least the people of Ukio wouldn't starve for it.

Her sensors officer, the Togorian Traks'zim, examined the plot with her, examining the reports that came in as the A-wings and inspections teams submitted them. "[All independent shippers]," he hissed. "[None of these are Imperial freighters.]"

"I can't say I'm surprised," she replied, tapping her lip with her forefinger thoughtfully. "We've been here a while; Imperial ships are probably taking the less explored, riskier routes to Ukio now. And that attrits them considerably."

Their first day they'd captured a Star Galleon, one of the Empire's preferred military transport designs. The ship had refused to go down without a fight, leaving it little more than a wreck once the battle was done; it's stubbornness had cost two of their pilots their lives. Large enough to be a capable freight hauler, and well enough armed to not need an escort, the versatile craft had been loaded with industrial equipment that could've been assembled into a small factory for the production of blaster and laser parts. It wasn't enough to produce _new_ weapons, but it would've been enough to produce plenty of spare parts for when the weapons the Ukio garrison ran down through hard use.

Since then, they hadn't caught much.

"[What do you think the Empire will do now, Captain?]"

Atril shrugged. "For the moment, we're in a stalemate. They can't break our blockade, but we also can't take Ukio, not with its planetary shields intact. Not without doing a lot of collateral damage, anyway. Even if we took out Rogriss' Star Destroyers, we'd just be stuck in orbit. But every time they come out to fight us, we've kicked them around like we did at Hishyim."

Traks'zim hissed unhappily, his large feline eyes refocusing on the display.

The gravelly voice of her Bothan communications officer, Hiacun, drew her attention away from it. "Captain, General Bel Iblis has called a staff meeting aboard _Orthavan_ , and requests that you, General Antilles, and Colonel Celchu attend," Hiacun reported with his typical Bothan briskness.

She frowned. "Have the shuttle prepared, and inform the Rogues." She frowned deeper, murmuring, "I wonder if I still have my dress uniform" under her breath.

* * *

She did not. Or at least, she couldn't remember where in her small quarters and locker she had stashed it, but no one else was wearing theirs. Another small perk of being on the right side, Atril mused.

Garm Bel Iblis wasted no time. "We've found _Invidious_ ," he said, crossing his arms across his chest. He stood at the end of the long conference table. On one side of the table were some of the commanding officers of the squadron's capital ships: the Mon Calamari COs of _Orthavan_ and _Ivardal,_ Captains Irraerl and Sulkials, both looked distinctly uncomfortable in the drier air of the conference room (even the portable humidifier Bel Iblis had brought in wasn't helping much) though Captain Sair Yonka of _Freedom_ and Admiral Areta Bell of _Endurance_ both looked happy enough.

On the other side of the table sat Bel Iblis' long-time personal aide, Sena Midanyl, flanked by Wedge and Tycho with Atril herself off to the side. Atril was by far the lowest-ranked person at the briefing, and she knew it.

"Are we going after her?" Wedge asked.

"No," Bel Iblis groused, his voice gravelly with annoyance. "She's in the only Imperial system nearby that's better fortified than Ukio. Intelligence reports that _Invidious_ has been spotted undergoing repairs at the Imperial repair yard in the Linuri system."

"Does that mean we've confirmed that _Invidious_ is now under Rogriss' command?" asked Tycho.

"Not exactly," said Midanyl, her calm, professional voice taking over for Garm's darker, slightly hoarse one. She was younger than Bel Iblis, but not by very much; her once raven hair now matched the General's grey. Atril also knew that Midanyl had recently become a grandmother, which probably explained some of her tiredness. "NRI hasn't been able to confirm a formal transfer order for _Invidious,_ and her status within the Imperial fleet is still uncertain. However, given our most recent discussions with General Cracken, we have to operate under the assumption that _Invidious_ has been assigned to Rogriss."

"Which means," Bel Iblis took back over, "that we need to assume that Cracken's Drall prisoner is now working for Rogriss. Which means we need to assume that all of our communications are potentially compromised." He scowled. "As of now, all squadron vessels are forbidden from using the HoloNet except for absolutely vital communications. All communications that do use the HoloNet are to be encrypted up to maximum available standards, but assume that even that won't keep their contents confidential."

The room was grim. Sair Yonka's expression in particular was dark with frustration.

"This gives the Empire a significant strategic advantage," Areta Bell said. The red-haired Corellian was one of the longest-serving members of the New Republic fleet (Wedge and Luke Skywalker had escorted her freighter to safety at the Battle of Hoth), and for that service she'd been given one of the most coveted positions in the fleet, command of the brand new _Endurance._

"Yes, it does," Bel Iblis agreed. "Which is why we need to dismantle this Imperial fleet as quickly and as thoroughly as possible."

That sent a ripple of surprise through the room. "We're going to attack?" asked Tycho carefully.

"Not right away," Bel Iblis said reluctantly, his tone making clear he wished they _could_ attack right away. "Not with the intent to take the planet, anyway. We're still expecting more reinforcements, and General Cracken informed me in his final HoloNet communication that he's sending help to deal with Ukio's shields, but that it may take some time to get here. In the meantime, we need to do as much as possible to keep the Empire off-balance." He nodded at his fleet commanders. "Which is why we're going to perform a hit-and-fade on Ukio later this week."

Midanyl manipulated her datapad, and in the middle of the table a hologram of the Ukio system appeared, five planets orbiting around the star. "The Imperials have one in-system facility outside of Ukio's planetary defense shields," she explained, and the map zoomed to present a close-look at the fourth of the five planets, a large, ringed gas giant. "A space station orbiting the system's largest gas giant, Suwen, which produces small amounts of Tibanna gas. Intelligence reports suggest the Imperial forces are attempting to enlarge the platform's extraction capabilities in order to reduce their reliance on imported Tibanna for their blasters and turbolasers. We want to get in, knock out the station, do as much damage to Rogriss' fleet as we can, and get out."

Bel Iblis smiled thinly. "I've sent couriers to the remainder of our fleet. This operation will require very careful timing without the HoloNet to coordinate, so we'll be mounting the attack in _precisely_ three days at eleven-hundred hours, galactic standard. That timetable cannot be changed." He turned to look at Atril. "You, Captain Tabanne, will be responsible for taking advantage of the chaos to hit as many Imperial freighters present in-system as possible."

"Yes, sir," she replied. A risky assignment, given how many ships would be flying around in-system…

"What's Rogue Squadron's status, General Antilles?" Bel Iblis asked.

"We'll be back up to near-optimal strength by then," Wedge said confidently. Atril couldn't help but notice Tycho giving his boss a slightly skeptical look, but Wedge's XO didn't verbalize whatever concerns he apparently had. His posture eased once Wedge sent him a cheeky grin.

"Good," Bel Iblis replied. Apparently for him Wedge's word was enough. "For the moment I'm going to leave Rogue Squadron aboard _Ession Strike_. Rogue Squadron and _Strike_ have formed a good team in the past, and it'll be your job to see to it that none of Rogriss' logistics vessels escape."

Wedge and Tycho both winced. Atril tried not to take it personally; if she was still flying she'd prefer to be stationed on _Orthavan_ or _Endurance_ too.

"If there are no more questions," Bel Iblis said, "that concludes the briefing. Get in, hit them so it hurts, and get home. We just need them off balance, understood?"

His subordinates pushed back their seats, rose and saluted. "Understood sir," said Atril and Antilles in unison.

"Good. You're both a credit to the Republic. Don't get killed. Dismissed."

* * *

"So, are you planning to tell me why you're so cheery about our status?" Tycho asked as soon as they were out of the briefing room. _Orthavan's_ corridors were busy with officers and crew going about their usual business, and Atril and Wedge squeezed against the side as a cargo repulsorlift was ushered down the center of the walkway. "You realize that we're still down five birds and two pilots, and I know what Emtrey says about small craft replacement," his XO called over the sounds of warming repulsors.

The repulsorlift passed, leaving only the background noise of a battleship in its wake. "Yes, I know," Wedge replied at a normal volume, the corner of his mouth tugging for a brief moment. "And no, I'm not going to tell you. It's a surprise. General's prerogative."

"Oh no," Tycho groaned, rubbing his forehead as Atril quietly settled in for a show. "Wedge Antilles planning surprises. Is this going to be like the time you tried to cook Tauntaun for Luke's birthday on Hoth? You pirated Alliance flight roster flimsi and emergency flares for confetti and just stood there as Janson hijacked the sound system with the theme from 'The Littlest Lostest Nerf'? As I recall we all ended up with confetti everywhere for a week."

"You exaggerate. It was only a few days. And no. It's better."

Tycho raised a very aristocratic eyebrow and launched another sally as Atril fought to keep her expression businesslike. "Is it going to be like the time you spent the better part of a month faking an exotic Ewok pet rescue so you could prank Janson into thinking the Wraiths had recruited an Ewok pilot?"

"You're forgetting that I also managed to convince him that he needed to find the Ewok who had gotten loose on _Mon Remonda_ , but he could only do so if he was in his skivvies and smeared with Ewok food. And no," Wedge said calmly.

Atril laughed. "That was funny. Shalla said Janson wouldn't look any of you in the eye for a fortnight, and the holo Squeaky took made that rear of his Fleet Group Famous."

"This one is still better," said Wedge, smirking at the memory. "You're going to have fun with it, Tycho." They stepped into the main axial lift, which started moving them towards _Orthavan's_ main hangar, where their shuttle back to _Ession Strike_ waited for them.

"Then it must be like the time you and I set up that ambush at Yag'Dhul station for _Lusankya_ and humiliated Isard. You remember—Booster Terrik ended up coming out of it the private owner of a Star Destroyer, which he's spent the last few years using to terrify the galaxy and our Internal Revenue Department?"

Wedge scoffed. "Hardly terrify, Tycho. _Errant Venture_ has taught Booster more about the market for Star Destroyer spare parts than he ever really wanted to know. He probably should've sold it to the New Republic and bought something more economical, but you know Booster, bigger is better. And no. It's better than that."

The lift doors slid open, and the trio stepped into the hangar, Wedge and Tycho in front, Atril following behind.

"Well if it's not like any of those times, then I suppose it'll be like the time you didn't tell the rest of the Rogues you called for reinforcements during their covert ops on Coruscant, and I showed up out of nowhere with half a squadron of Z-95s to save your rear at exactly the right moment?" Tycho said a bit petulantly.

Wedge smiled. "Yes, Tycho. I'm expecting it to be exactly like that. You'll even get to be all snootily superior and Alderaanian about it."

* * *

Eighteen hours later, Atril was beginning to think that Wedge might've cut the margin on his surprise a little too close when _Ession Strike's_ board lit up with alarms from both her sensors and the fighters on CAP. "[A vessel just dropped out of hyperspace! It looks like a _Quasar Fire-_ class bulk cruiser,]" announced Traks'zim, the Togorian turning his chair to look at the detailed readout appearing on his monitor. "[I can't tell if it's a bulk freighter variant or a starfighter carrier variant,]" he added, sounding a bit disgusted.

The ship's alarm sounded, men and women hurrying to their posts.

"It doesn't look like it's spoiling for a fight," Atril observed, stroking her chin with a finger. "And usually a _Quasar Fire_ won't travel unescorted. Do we have it's IFF yet?"

Wedge's voice startled her. She'd heard the rest of the bridge crew scramble in, but hadn't realized he'd been among them. "Don't bother. She'll ping as _Uthorrferrell_ from the Eiattuan system defense forces," he said, offering a grin at her surprised look. "First rule of being a General, Atril," he said. "Always maintain your own supply lines. It helps if you have some favors to call in when the official channels get, well, excessively official." He nodded. "If I may, please authorize them to approach when they provide the countersign, and have your helmsman accommodate them into the formation. They're going to have some supplies and personnel to shuttle over."

* * *

Wedge and the rest of the Rogues assembled in the hangar. Tycho wore an expression of amused acceptance; the rest of the squadron wore looks of confusion. "So, Boss, are you planning on telling us what's up, or is this a Tauntaun Stew event?" asked Hobbie, his hands pushed into his orange flightsuit.

"Ask Tycho," Wedge said.

"Apparently," Tycho said, already distancing himself from the fallout, "it's more of a me on Coruscant kind of thing."

Hobbie and Janson, both of whom had been on training duty during the Rogues' mission on Coruscant, looked at each other in confusion, then both looked at Tycho. "So, what, does that mean Wedge called up Winter?" asked Janson. "Or did the Princess send us a resupply?"

Tycho shook his head. "No, sadly."

"He means that we're about to be surprised with some unexpected reinforcements," Corran Horn answered their persisting question. "Tycho came out of nowhere with fighters we could fly."

Wedge snapped and pointed at Corran wordlessly.

"Oh no," Janson said in faux-whisper. "Wedge thinks he's being clever."

"We're doomed," added Hobbie.

Wedge just stood there and mock-glowered at them both as the hangar bays aligned.

One of the deck officers came over and waved them back, and the squadron pushed until they were nearly snug against the far end of the hangar. _Ession Strike_ was a tiny ship to carry a full squadron of fighters, and there wasn't a whole lot of space left.

Through the vacuum-seal came four X-wings; three under tractor, one under power. The first was painted in Rogue Squadron colors; the remaining three were unpainted, as if they'd come right off the factory floor. The deck officers waved them down, and the Rogues could see that the latter three fighters were each being piloted by their astromechs.

The piloted snub popped its canopy and its pilot stood up. She was impressively tall for a human, easily the tallest member of the squadron, and powerfully built. As she took off her helmet, her thick blonde hair remained plastered to her head in a functional crown braid. "Plourrie!" Janson yelped excitedly, jogging forward ahead of the rest of the squadron to greet her as she climbed down the ladder. "How are the kids?"

Isplourrdacartha "Plourr" Estillo hit the deck, ignored Janson, and smiled at Wedge, firing off an artfully sloppy salute. "Congratulations on the promotion, General, it's about damn time," before pretending to notice Janson as Wedge acknowledged her salute with parade-ground precision and Janson with a tilt of the head.

Plourr immediately dropped her salute, reoriented, and made to greet the troublesome Tanaabian. Janson, expecting a friendly embrace, found himself instead locked in her headlock. No slouch at unarmed combat himself, and a born entertainer, Janson only made token resistance inside the grip of her arm. He squirmed, more to make a show of it than anything, and began issuing complaints that reached a shrill whine on a live flight deck.

She talked over Janson's protests. "My children are fine, they love that Littlest Bantha holoshow you sent _and_ the water pistols. And so does my consort. My government, not so much. They were ambushed by armed toddlers last week. But I'm guessing you didn't think about that, did you?" She sighed theatrically, equalling Janson's drama, and her gaze found Tycho. "I'm disappointed Tycho, you let Wes out of his cage," she said cheerfully, hauling the Taanabian to and fro with alarming ease. "Where do you keep it? I'd be happy to huck him back into it for you."

* * *

It took Janson only a few minutes to talk himself loose, and then the squadron reunion had begun in earnest. Most of Wedge's pilots knew Plourr from past service, and they'd introduced her to those she didn't know and exchanged stories before getting down to business. _Ession Strike's_ forward lounge was a poor excuse for a briefing room, but Wedge had seen far worse.

Plourr hadn't changed that much since the last time Wedge had seen her. A long-time Rogue before she'd been lured into other duties, Plourr was the angriest, most physically intimidating human who'd ever strapped on a Rogue Squadron flightsuit. When Wedge had first recruited her, she'd also been constitutionally incapable of not using that size and strength to beat the stuffing out of at least three people in every bar she walked into. (Admittedly they always had it coming, and she'd never complained about the subsequent mess duty.)

She'd mellowed some in the last few years. Becoming Queen Plourr the First of Eiattu likely had a lot to do with it.

"So you found Tavira," Plourr said as she straddled one of the chairs, resting her elbows down on the table. The other Rogues present gathered around. "She's up to no good again, I assume." Plourr clasped her hands together in a manner that was more than vaguely menacing. "We should have squashed her on Eiattu, before she could run riot around the galaxy."

"You're not going to get an argument from me, Plourr," Wedge said.

"Tavira has come into possession of three things: a Star Destroyer, the _Invidious,_ which is currently under repairs at the Imperial repair yards at Linuri—" Tycho began.

"We hit it with a bunch of proton torpedoes, but we didn't have enough to close the deal," Janson put in.

Tycho nodded. "But we did enough damage to hurt it, which is probably why it's in for repairs now."

"Are we going after her?" Plourr asked, her expression one of hungry anticipation. Leonia Tavira had been Moff of Ado Sector, and her capital world had been Eiattu. Plourr's Eiattu. "Tavira dragged Eiattu through misery in her quest to squeeze as much wealth and power out of it as she could, and as the woman who has been left picking up the pieces, I very much want a piece of that dicred-ante Isard. Hopefully this time we'll get her."

"Sorry, Beneficent Majesty, but not yet," Tycho replied. "Linuri is well fortified, with Golan platforms and two Vicstars on station to back them up. To hit Linuri we'd have to take our eyes off Ukio, and we can't do that."

"If we were to let up on Ukio, the Imperials would bring in more supplies and make its eventual conquest even more difficult," Wedge explained with a sigh. "Once we take Ukio we can move on Linuri, but until then Ukio is our first priority."

Plourr frowned, then offered a grudging nod. "Fine. So we need to take Ukio before we can take Tavira." She waved her hand in a small circle, beckoning Tycho and Wedge for more information. "What are the other two things Tavira has come into possession of?"

"A Force user," Tycho said, glancing at Corran.

"That's about all we know," Corran said with a frown. "He was armed with a lightsaber and was good with it. Better than me, which isn't saying much, but still he can bounce back blaster bolts and lift things. Thankfully we didn't get too close, or…" he glanced uneasily at Tycho and Wedge, "I suspect not all of us would have made it off that landing pad."

Plourr's frown was deepening. "That's alarming," she conceded. "Looks like we should try some Jedi countermeasures. What's the third asset?"

"We _think_ she is working with a slicer who can penetrate the HoloNet," Tycho finished. "The extent of his abilities are unclear, but the situation is dire enough that General Cracken is sending out alerts to key facilities, instructing them not to send any vital information over the HoloNet, even under high encrypt."

Plourr's frown had vanished into a cool, calm expression Wedge didn't remember from her squadron service. "That's very alarming," she said after a moment. She leaned back in her chair, folding her well-muscled arms across her chest. "I'm pleased you called me, Wedge. So, we have a plan, I assume? Even if that plan is just to fly in and start shooting?"

"How long do we have you?" Wedge asked. "I know you can't be away for too long."

"I shouldn't be away at all," Plourr said sadly. "But things aren't as uncertain back home as they used to be. There are multiple heirs to the throne now, and if anything happens to me their father can avenge my death and take over as Regent; he does most of the day to day as it is."

Janson's eyebrows arched mischievously. "Is Thorr walking yet?"

Plourr beamed. "Hurtling. Everywhere at full acceleration. He enjoyed chasing down my ministers with a water pistol, which I have to admit was the funniest thing I've seen in years. The twins are stumbling quickly. Combat should be nice and relaxing with a pleasant sleep schedule compared to that and court life."

"Did Rial finally talk you into actually marrying him?" asked Tycho, grinning.

The Queen of Eiattu laughed. "Oh, no. We're still just engaged. He wants to scandalize everyone and elope on a galactic vacation with me and the babies. I have no patience for a court wedding, and frankly you know I despise most of the planetary nobility anyway." She rolled her eyes. "They know it too, but it's their own fault for trying to kill me that one time."

Janson was hopping from foot to foot, wearing an expression that gleamed with and glee. "Plourr, if four years ago I'd had to pick the Rogue _least_ likely to settle down and start a family, I would've picked you. And here you are! The first of us to have kids! Kids you told to call me 'Unca Wes!'"

"Not the first," Tycho put in. "Beruss and Ardele had a child around the same time. Just a few weeks before Plourr's first, if I recall."

Janson waved his hand at Tycho. "They don't count. Everyone knew they were settling and sending lifeday cards. But Plourr! Our Plourr! And she has _three kids_!"

"Wes, I'd threaten to thrash you, but at this point we all already know about your masochistic tendencies." His face fell, and Plourr continued, "I guess I'll have to get back into condition with a spar tomorrow. I _wonder_ where I can find a partner for that." He brightened theatrically and Plourr sighed, shaking her head. "But really. Tycho, Wedge, it's been this long and he's still running around with the maturity of a caffeinated adolescent? Where does he find the energy?"

"Just be glad he's not the one who had kids first," Wedge said dryly. His heart was warm at how clearly happy Plourr was, and at the reunion. It was too rare for ex-Rogues to get together, and he wished that this reunion was for its own sake, and not because they needed Plourr and the fighters she had brought. "We'd have more than one Janson running around."

"Can you imagine?" Tycho asked with a sigh. "But I suppose he'd have to find someone who would put up with him first," the Alderaanian added.

"Just what we need, an authoritarian female Janson," Plourr added, grinning wickedly at Wes.

Janson folded his arms across his chest. "Now you're all beating up on me," he complained.

"Yes, but you make it so easy," Plourr laughed.

"Come to think of it," said Hobbie mischievously, speaking up for the first time to land a precise volley, "I'm surprised you two never tried dating." he said, head tracking back and forth between the erstwhile queen and aspiring jokester.

Plourr and Wes glanced at each other, recoiled and glared at him, mock recrimination written on their faces while a ripple of laughter ran through the rest of the Rogues.

"Well," Plourr said, standing "I should probably get some rack time so I can be haunted by tall, pale and gloomy's storytime." She held her hand out to Wedge, who took it in a firm grip. "Rogue Eleven, reporting for duty, General."


	16. Chapter Fifteen

Wedge checked his squadron's status reports one last time as _Ession Strike_ hummed through hyperspace towards Ukio. This was the best condition the Rogues had been in since the Thrawn campaign. They had fresh new fighters and spare parts, and Zraii had done his usual exemplary job; all eleven fighters came up all in the green. But he still wished that Luke was there so they'd have that extra edge. And he'd have another friend to talk to.

"Hyperspace reversion in five minutes," Atril's voice said into his ear. "The main formation and the secondary strike forces should already be engaged and drawing the Imperials out of our attack vector."

"Let's hope that Bel Iblis' precise timing works out again this time," Wedge murmured, switching his HUD to review the battle plan one last time. It wasn't the most elaborate attack plan Wedge had ever seen, a relatively simple three-pronged thrust and retreat, but the timing was vital and there were plenty of chances for kark-ups, even assuming they _weren't_ speeding into a trap.

"We're cutting it a little close, but at least this plan doesn't involve us diving in to engage two Star Destroyers and their escorts all by ourselves," her voice came back, an odd mix of amusement and relief.

"If this all plays out as it should, we'll just be taking on freighters and maybe some TIEs," Wedge agreed. "Nothing we can't handle. The rest of the fleet got the tough assignments."

Gate whistled at him to let him know the rest of the squadron wanted his attention, and flipped his comm back to the squadron channel. He was pleased to hear confident banter. "So, Boss," Hobbie said. "What rank does Plourr have? I mean, she's a Queen right? Does a Queen outrank a General?"

"Queen is not a military rank," Corran put in with a flat affect.

"Plourr never resigned her military commission," Wedge replied. "And her current rank is Major."

"Major Mom," Wes put in cheekily. "I like it, it has a nice ring to it."

"Careful, Wes," Plourr's voice came next. "I'll order you to do some babysitting. You know my rank predates yours, so technically I outrank you, right?"

"This is unfair!" Wes objected. "That's only because I kept turning down promotions. And I'm sure that's a violation of my dignity as an officer! Right, Tycho?"

"I'm not sure," Tycho said, maintaining the calm command tone he used during briefings and battle. "I'm a Colonel, and Force knows I've babysat for the Solos enough."

"You're dating their nanny!" Wes whined.

"Go ahead Wes," Tycho said, voice dangerously even. "You tell Winter she's a nanny and see what happens. And do you _really_ want to tell Plourr no? She's twice your size."

"Wedge, the other Rogues are ganging up on me," Wes said with a laugh. "They're going to ask me to babysit!" There was a pause. "Although, you know, maybe that would be fun… didn't Plourr say something about shooting nobles with water pistols?"

"Wes, no one sane _asks_ a thirteen-year-old boy to babysit," said Wedge, "I give it a month before you get an _insistent_ _demand_ from Her Beneficent Majesty. And I will _happily_ grant you leave to do so."

"Thanks!"

"Wait, no, what—" came Janson and Plourr's voices.

Wedge's comm board lit up as _Strike's_ Bothan communication's officer cut in. "Rogues, reversion in thirty seconds," he said firmly.

_* * *_

_Ession Strike_ came out of hyperspace as close to Ukio as it could. On her plot, Atril saw the battle updates start to rapidly come in. The main battle was taking place on the far side of the planet, with the primary Republic formation and the primary Imperial formation slugging it out on the opposite edge of Ukio's gravity well, well out of range to intervene. On the other side of the system, the secondary battle opened as _Freedom_ and _Endurance_ charged towards the system's largest gas giant and its orbiting Tibanna gas mining station. Their shields already glowed under the barrage from the two enemy Impstars, but _Endurance's_ fighters were about to get their well-armed teeth into their assailants.

There were no enemy warships waiting for _Strike_ , and Atril covertly clenched her fist and knocked it on the arm of her chair victoriously, letting out a tension-filled breath before slowly drawing in another and examining her prey.

Three Imperial freighters, of a variety of makes, and all the time in the world to shred them. General Bel Iblis had been right, yet again. Now it was her turn to get the job done before they could escape into hyperspace, and before the Imperials could scramble a real defense. "Designate the freighters in front of us as Targets One, Two, and Three. Full power to the engines and guns. Rogue Squadron, launch!"

* * *

Admiral Teren Rogriss watched his plot in dismay as the electronic icon that was the Republican Star Destroyer _Freedom_ poured turbolaser and ion cannon fire into Suwen Station. The station had two Star Destroyers defending it, but they had been outmatched by _Freedom_ and the Republic's new fleet carrier, which had swarmed the Empire's TIE squadrons with A-wings, X-wings, and B-wings that smashed through the Imperial fighter screen and hit the the station with proton torpedoes and ion cannons. The Republic forces hadn't inflicted too much damage on the Star Destroyers, but with fighter cover gone from the station Bel Iblis' forces had executed a singleminded and inexorable thrust. The old Corellian's objective was plain as the two Republic ships singlemindedly focused on the stationary target. The much-needed Tibanna gas mines which radiated out from Suwen Station, hovering over the constantly-flowing clouds of the Ukio system's largest gas giant, rang with explosions. Each sub-district lighting up triggered a sympathetic detonation in its neighbor, surrounding the station with a ring of fire formed from the debris of costly Imperial investments and months of lost munitions.

The station's repulsorlifts died under _Freedom's_ ion bombardment and it started to slowly sink into the cloudy mists below. Evacuation craft launched from it, ejecting and rising unsteadily. They were ignored by the combatants as the survivors scrambled away from the doomed station and the gas giant's gravity.

That was hardly the worst of it. The battle over Suwen was on the other side of the system _,_ and while on that front Rogriss could do nothing more than watch, he and Pellaeon had enough problems all their own. Four Mon Calamari cruisers, Bel Iblis' dreadnaughts, and a smattering of smaller vessels had drawn in the bulk of Rogriss' forces, including _Chimaera_. They had seemingly presented the vanguard of the long-awaited New Republic invasion, but it was obvious now that Garm Bel Iblis had been hunting easier game than Ukio itself. Through _Chimaera's_ bridge window he could see _Agonizer_ and the Republic's _Ivardal_ and _Innasval_ engaged in a brutal brawl, red and green lights flickering between them. _Agonizer_ took hit after hit under the metronomic pounding, it's never-fully-repaired engines finally flickering and dying. The ship started drifting out of line and lost formation with _Chimaera_ , forcing _Nemesis_ to evade.

Nonetheless, Rogriss still had this flank of the Republic's attack on even terms with a full five Star Destroyers, including the wounded _Agonizer_ , and their escorts _._ The _Death's Head_ and _Judicator_ were trying to cut off the Republic's forces to prevent their retreat, but there was no real chance of success; as soon as the attack on Suwen Station had begun, the main Republic formation had begun its withdrawal. They'd already exited Ukio's gravity well and could vanish at any time; they only remained to distract the Imperials long enough to ensure that the rest of their forces could also escape.

And in the middle of the system, the damned corvette _Ession Strike_ and the thrice-bedamned Rogue Squadron were making mincemeat of his freighters. They'd already smashed up three bulk freighters and were now engaged in a shootout with a doomed Star Galleon which had been locked out of Ukio when the planet's defensive shields had gone up. Unlike the freighters the galleon could've taken _Strike_ in a straight-up fight, but it was ill-prepared to deal with the snubfighters. As Rogriss watched, too far away to help but close enough to see, three X-wings unleashed another volley of proton torpedoes, slamming them into the galleon's blunt nose. Explosions tore through the vessel, and even if he'd had TIE fighters to spare to engage them, there was no way to get there in time to do any good. Besides, his pilots were nowhere near as skilled as the Republic's top aces, and Rogriss was running precariously short of TIEs as it was.

A three-pronged hit-and-fade. The attack underscored just how precarious Rogriss's strategic position really was. They were locked in a system they couldn't defend, protecting a planet that couldn't repair them, fighting off a superior force under one of the best military minds the enemy had to offer. Garm Bel Iblis was far too dangerous; offering him such luxury was tempting fate.

It hadn't been all bad for the Empire. _Agonizer_ had given as good as she'd gotten, and _Innasval_ was sure to need some time for repairs. The initial fleet engagement had been slightly better than even, which had made Pellaeon and Rogriss both nervous, but they didn't have the forces to not take it seriously.

All the Republic forces were in full withdrawal now, making it clear that they had no intent to try to take Ukio today. The main formation was the first to vanish into hyperspace, leaving _Chimaera's_ final shots to hum through the void until they finally dissipated. _Freedom_ and _Endurance_ went next, blasting their engines until they exited Suwen's gravity well and then jumping away, a small hurricane of snubfighters leaping out with them.

Last was the corvette and the X-wings. The X-wings didn't bother to try to dock aboard _Ession Strike_ , the maneuver would've been too difficult under these conditions, but they didn't need to. One by one each X-wing streaked away into hyperspace. The corvette waited until all eleven had safely fled and then it too flared, its bed of engines glowing momentarily before a flicker of pseudomotion carried it into hyperspace.

They could've stayed. Bel Iblis' forces had outnumbered the Empire in pure raw material terms. Had they fought it out, they might have been able to wreck his whole fleet. The only reason they didn't, Rogriss suspected, was they thought they'd be able to do that at some point of their choosing in the future, when the doing of it would not be so costly.

No. There was no way to win. The defense of Ukio was simply untenable. The best he could do was stall, and Rogriss wasn't sure how much longer he could do even that.

* * *

Four hours later, the battle was concluded and the fleet group nursed its wounds. Rogriss was in his office, reviewing the after-action reports, when Captain Pellaeon arrived. "Admiral," Pellaeon's voice was rock-steady, a confident foundation and support. "We have just finalized the final casualty summary. Suwen Station is a total loss, and the Rebels destroyed three of our bulk freighters and the Star Galleon _Ferox._ Among our Star Destroyers, _Agonizer_ reports the most serious damage, with more minor damage to _Judicator_ and _Nemesis_. Two of _Agonizer's_ three main engines have been seriously damaged." Pellaeon relaxed slightly, but his expression was grim. " _Agonizer_ will require significant yard time before it can be made combat-ready again, Sir."

Rogriss nodded, unsurprised. His still face did little to betray his dismay, but Pellaeon could probably see it anyway. _Agonizer_ had never been fully repaired after the debacle at Hishyim, and the Republic had specifically targeted it during the engagement earlier that day. They had recognized a vulnerability, and they had exploited it. It hurt to see the ship which had carried his flag for most of the last two decades so badly maimed. "We'll have to send _Agonizer_ to Linuri for repairs," he said with a sigh.

"Yes, sir," Pellaeon agreed, "but, sir..." Pellaeon's expression somehow grew even grimmer, "I had Lieutenant Tschel contact the Linuri repair yard. The yard reports that there is already a seriously-damaged Star Destroyer already with priority repair status, and that the repairs are expected to take several more weeks at least."

"What?" Rogriss looked up in surprise, then turned to his computer. "The Council of Moffs placed the Linuri yards under my exclusive purview," he said unnecessarily; Pellaeon already knew that. "The only person who can reserve their use for vessels outside this squadron is Moff Disra, and so far as I know he has no ships that might need repair. We've had no reports of Republic raids on Linuri."

"I know that, sir," Pellaeon replied, also unnecessarily. "Nonetheless, they report that they won't be able to see to _Agonizer's_ repairs for several weeks."

Rogriss shooks his head. That was absolutely unacceptable. He needed all his ships in combat shape, and did not have weeks to spare. He doubted Bel Iblis would wait weeks before hitting Ukio again, certainly if the situation were reversed he would not wait that long. "Do we know which ship is under repair?"

"I have Lieutenant Dreyf preparing a full report on that, Admiral. The repair yard reports that the Star Destroyer _Invidious_ is under repair."

There had been a time, not that long ago, when the Imperial Starfleet had possessed so many Star Destroyers, under so many commanders, that even an Admiral like Rogriss would not have known all their names. Star Destroyers could appear and disappear, carrying on their business, and seeing one you didn't recognize occasionally passing through your sector wasn't cause for alarm. There were simply so many ships, on so many missions, that he could assume that each and every one had a specific purpose, even if he did not know what that purpose was.

That time was past. Rogriss had seven Star Destroyers and their escorts. He knew every ship in the Albrion Sector, and he knew every ship that the Empire had stationed in the galactic southeast at large. All of those vessels were under _his_ overall command, and each and every one had a specific assignment that he had either given or approved.

 _Invidious_ was not one of them.

He scowled. "Prepare the secure communications center," he growled. "I need to have a talk with Moff Disra."

_* * *_

Moff Disra sat in his office, ruminating. At this hour, the sun came through the window at just the right angle, casting all the wood furnishings with a glowing, golden hue. His smattering of personal possessions gleamed with reflected sunlight, service awards and promotion plaques sending occasional glare through the room.

Outside his window Kinham Bay was busy, the locals out in their antiquated sailing craft; the typical light, temperate breeze inflating sails and carrying the boats languidly through the calm waves. People in bathing suits or other light, comfortable clothes wandered the streets, chatting amiably, as if they'd forgotten there was a war on. Ever since Thrawn had suspended the forced impressment of Imperial youth into the fleet, the general tenor among the local populace had been that the war was all but over, especially among the upper-class that principally inhabited Kinham. Disra wondered what they would do when the Empire was inevitably forced to resume the practice, now that Thrawn's cloning facilities were destroyed.

He scrolled through the datapad with the latest intelligence reports, fresh from the latest Imperial Intelligence courier. There were a few highlighted points, including the formal inauguration of the Smugglers' Alliance as an employed third-party actor by the New Republic, which was followed by several suggestions for ways that relationship might be undermined. Disra, with his long relationships both covert and overt with the Fringe, knew better than most the potential value that the Rebellion (and especially canny men like Airen Cracken) could potentially derive from the new business association.

There were several long pages of Rebellion fleet maneuvers he skipped over as useless; only one part specifically was highlighted, which indicated that members of the Eiattu System Defense Force had been redeployed to an unknown location for unknown reasons. Intelligence suspected they'd been sent to reinforce Garm Bel Iblis, which was annoying (Disra hadn't been sent any reinforcements to help Rogriss cling to Albrion, after all), but not especially concerning. One system's defense forces was hardly a serious threat on its own.

He kept reading. Every once in a while there was something in one of these reports that was exploitable, that he could turn around and use for his own benefit. He stopped, pursing his lips and re-read one of the miscellaneous items near the end of the document.

IMPERIAL INTELLIGENCE INTERCEPTED COMMUNICATIONS FROM NRI FACILITY ON COMMENOR WARNING THAT REBELLION HOLONET COMMUNICATIONS HAVE BEEN COMPROMISED BY AN UNKNOWN THIRD PARTY. NRI SUGGESTED HOLONET BE RESTRICTED TO VITAL MESSAGES ONLY AND THE USE OF INCREASED ENCRYPTION OF ALL HOLONET COMMUNICATIONS UNTIL FURTHER NOTICE. INVESTIGATION UNDERWAY.

Disra read it again, and then a third time, a distant memory stirring. When he'd been Moff Vorru's aide, back home on Corellia, Vorru had often had a knack for knowing things he shouldn't have. Vorru had always played it off with a polite smile, an insinuation of omniscience; an attempt to further enlarge his already larger-than-life persona. At the time, Disra had admired that about him. Disra had admired a lot about him.

Disra stroked his chin thoughtfully. It hadn't been omniscience, of course. Vorru had an asset—a tool that he'd used to collect and use information to greatest effect. The rumors through the Fringe—which Vorru had used Disra to manage—had been of a legendary slicer, for whom the HoloNet was an open book. When Vorru had been arrested, such rumors had stopped, and Disra had always assumed the slicer had gone underground, or been arrested with Vorru and become a tool of Palpatine or Isard. But now Vorru was back, as pompous and self-assured as ever, and NRI was concerned that their HoloNet communications were compromised.

No, he decided. It wasn't a coincidence. Vorru was back, and with him was his mysterious slicer. He wondered, idly, what the slicer had been doing for the past fifteen-odd years. He wondered even more why anyone who knew him well would be so loyal to Fliry Vorru. Blackmail, most likely, he thought with a bitter frown.

His intercom buzzed. "Yes," he said, thumbing it on.

"I'm terribly sorry to disturb you, sir," said the officer on watch. "Admiral Rogriss is on the HoloNet, and he wishes to speak with you personally."

Disra frowned at the intercom. Rogriss? "Of course. Put Admiral Rogriss through on my office holocomm." One of the benefits, he thought as he swiveled his chair so that he faced the holographic projector on his desk, of being a Moff was that the Empire went through a great amount of effort to make sure that his secure communications were both convenient and comfortable.

He reached to the interface on the arm of his chair, and the painting on the wall behind his head transformed from one of the Kinham harbor, which he used to make the locals feel welcome in his office, to one of an Imperial Star Destroyer, nose angled towards the viewer, confident and powerful.

He thumbed the holocomm. Admiral Rogriss appeared as a small blue figure, his image flickering. He wore the traditional admiral's cap, and his arms were folded behind his back as he stood at attention. "Moff Disra," he said respectfully as the communications link was fully established.

"Admiral Rogriss," Disra returned smoothly, although his voice and manner had never been able to match Vorru's calm, effortless charisma. "This is an unexpected pleasure."

"Yes, sir. Thank you, sir," Rogriss replied, bowing his head again. "I am afraid that I must report the New Rep—the Rebellion has attacked Ukio. Their attack was successfully repulsed by my forces, but Suwen Station was destroyed and several of my heavy transports, including a Star Galleon, were damaged. The Star Destroyer _Agonizer_ is also badly in need of repairs."

Disra's expression tightened. It was not really a surprise that the Rebellion had launched another attack on Ukio—such attacks would continue until they captured the system, no doubt—and it was good news that Rogriss had managed to repel it, but those losses were severe. "I trust you gave as good as you got, Admiral," he said with forced cheer.

"We endeavoured to do so, sir. We believe that one enemy Star Cruiser is similarly out of action, and several others took varying degrees of damage."

"Excellent," Disra replied, not really believing him. Rogriss was a good admiral but even more than being a good admiral he was a good _politician_ , and he had no doubt framed his report of the battle in the best possible light. Disra knew that everything he had said was true—no Imperial officer would be stupid enough to lie to a Moff, not with the penalties for such things—but he doubted the Rebellion (or Rogriss himself) would agree that the battle had been a "success" for the Imperials. "I thank you for your report, Admiral."

"Yes, sir." Rogriss hesitated. "Moff Disra, I would like to dispatch _Agonizer_ to Linuri for immediate repair. The Linuri yards are the closest ones we have for any kind of large-scale repair job, and _Agonizer's_ engineers believe that two of the ship's Destroyer-I engines will need that kind of extensive repair. They're also concerned that the ship's number two engine might need full replacement."

It was Disra's turn to hesitate. Normally, this would not be a complicated request. But the Linuri rapid repair unit could only manage a single Star Destroyer at a time, and thanks to Vorru they were already occupied. _Invidious,_ with its extensive damage, was in the middle of a long-overdue overhaul, and its Captain (or Admiral, or Moff, or whatever Tavira wanted to call herself) had insisted that all components which needed or _might_ need replacement be replaced. The procedure would take another week at least, and could not now be postponed—not without kicking _Invidious_ out with half its systems non-functional.

Vorru had been quite clear about the consequences if he failed to cooperate with Tavira's wishes. "I'm afraid the Linuri yards are otherwise occupied, Admiral," Disra said. He knew better than to elaborate—it was best to say as little as possible about the matter.

"Otherwise occupied?" Rogriss' expression bore the polite surprise of a man who felt none. "Moff Disra, I was under the impression that the only _Imperial-_ class Star Destroyers in this region were under my command, and I have all seven of them with me at Ukio. Has the Starfleet sent another?"

Disra hesitated again. "Of sorts," he settled on saying. "The Star Destroyer _Invidious_ has been performing classified missions on behalf of the ISB," he lied blithely, but that was the benefit of the ISB—no one would dare to ask, and ISB wouldn't tell even if they did "—and sustained damage on one of those missions."

" _Invidious_?" Rogriss asked. His expression became thoughtful. " _Invidious_ was once part of Admiral Teradoc's forces, I believe. Who commands the vessel now?"

Disra silently damned Vorru for putting him in this situation. It was clear Rogriss already knew the answers to these questions, but they were innocent and if he had nothing to hide, he would have to answer them. "Admiral Leonia Tavira."

"The former Moff of Ado Sector? I didn't realize she had connections to ISB. I hope the vessel's damage is not that severe." Rogriss shook his head. "Moff Disra, I need _Agonizer_ fully repaired as soon as possible. General Bel Iblis is pressing Ukio and his fleet has received reinforcements, while mine has not."

There was an opening for Disra to reclaim a bit of position. " _Invidious_ did engage the Rebellion in Albrion Sector not long ago," he said. "In fact, Admiral Tavira managed to destroy or cripple five X-wings belonging to the fabled Rogue Squadron. Some small recompense for the losses you sustained at Hishyim." Hopefully, Disra thought, that would be enough to satisfy (or at least deflect) Rogriss.

It clearly caught Rogriss by surprise, and his eyes widened for a moment. The small, blue-tinged hologram was not especially emotive—especially when dealing with Imperial officers who were trained from academy orientation on to conceal their feelings—but in this case, Rogriss had not done enough to hide it fully. "I see," he said after a moment to consider. The Admiral hovered, clearly debating what to say next, and then nodded his head. "How long until the fleet yards will be available for _Agonizer?_ "

"I will find out for you, and impress upon the yard crews the importance of finishing the repairs to _Invidious_ with all due haste," Disra promised. "I apologize for the inconvenience, Admiral Rogriss, but I know that you are a good servant of the Empire, and I will deliver to you whatever aid and reinforcement I can as soon as possible." Disra ended the call before he let his anger show on his face.

 _Damn you, Vorru. You have put me into a horribly precarious situation. If Rogriss decides to investigate and is bold enough to call me on my ISB bluff_ … but Rogriss wouldn't call him on that bluff. Rogriss was an Imperial commander of the old school, one of the few who still cared about concepts like honor, service, and loyalty.

He thumbed his intercom.

"Kelso here, sir," the officer on watch said.

"Kelsin, I want a secure line to _Invidious_. Tell Admiral Tavira to be waiting for me in ten minutes."

_* * *_

"I don't _care_ what you think you have over me, I want to speak to Vorru!" Disra hissed, serpentine, at the tiny image of Leonia Tavira.

"Moff Disra," her image smiled, patience visibly thin. "As I've already told you, Moff Vorru is unavailable. He has gone offworld."

"Offworld! Offworld!" Disra snarled angrily at her pretentious little face. "You have the _gall_ to _blackmail me_ and then _ignore_ me? What will you do if I order the repair yards to cease its work on your Star Destroyer? What if I order them to start dismantling your weapons and shields and leave you vulnerable?"

Tavira's violet eyes were cold. "I no longer need Vorru to hold you in check, Disra. Not that I ever did, of course. If you attempt to carry out any of those threats, I'll simply submit _Invidious'_ actual record from the last six months to Imperial Fleet Command, along with a copy of the conversation you had with Moff Vorru and complete copies of all his files on your past activities."

Disra froze.

Tavira's smile was colder than her gaze. "Are we quite clear?"

Disra favored her with a furious expression. "If you do that, you won't get the repairs you so desperately need. And you'll make yourself a target."

"True. But I don't need the Empire, and I know better than to fear it." She brushed some invisible lint off her shoulder, then adjusted her bandana unnecessarily. "I have a base of power all my own, and leeching off the Empire is merely a _convenience_ , not a necessity. Unlike you, who've sold yourself to it wholesale."

Disra raised a finger angrily. "Fine. You tell Vorru that Rogriss is suspicious and I need to give him something, _anything_ , to get him off _our_ trail. And you _tell_ him that I remember all his little tricks while we worked together in the Corellian office, and I _know_ he's back up to them. You tell him that he's going to do one of those tricks for _me_ , understand? I need to give Rogriss a victory, a _real_ victory, or I can't even guarantee these repair yards will still _be_ here in three months, not with the Rebellion breathing down my neck."

Tavira considered him for a long moment. "Very well. I will tell him," she agreed. "Is there anything else I can do for you, Moff Disra?"

"Yes," he snarled. "Get the hell out of my sector." He hit the intercom with a fist and her image vanished.

His hand hurt, but that pain was barely an afterthought compared to the fear gnawing at his gut.


	17. Chapter Sixteen

If Han's _Millennium Falcon_ was a set of battered and scuffed athletic shoes that fit just right, the _Wild Karrde_ was a comfortable pair of business-casual brogues with a surprising amount of traction. Her exterior was just battered enough to give her character, but each interior addition was well thought-out and comfortable. More importantly, _everything worked_ , all of the time _. Wild Karrde_ was larger, of course, intended to move bulk cargo and as the roving headquarters of one of the galaxy's foremost traders, which explained the refined appointments, larger crew, and why Karrde clearly went out of his way to make sure his crew was comfortable: consideration (and lucre) bred loyalty. Not the sort the Isards or Palpatines commanded, but something more lasting.

Luke and Artoo continued their tour, passing by the medbay. _Wild Karrde_ had a medical facility, but a ship her size, with so much internal volume dedicated to cargo, had only so much space to spare, so it was quite compact. The last time he'd been aboard _Wild Karrde_ had been after Wayland, when they'd all been bruised, burned and exhausted after the final fight with C'baoth. Mara had come out the fight the most badly hurt. At the time he'd had no time to appreciate the furnishings and had practically haunted the medbay on the trip back to Coruscant, sitting snug between her bed and the bulkhead in the only free space in the room.

For as disreputable as he looked, Chin made a surprisingly adept medtech and while Luke never did get around to asking him where he found his expertise (he'd been too busy watching Mara), the Myrkr native had made a quick assessment and left Luke to watch over Mara while she slept.

Unconsciousness had eased the usual harsh set of Mara's face into an expression more relaxed than he'd ever seen her, but a lack of any of her usual vivacity left Luke colder and more worried than he had been in a long time. He'd completely ignored his own lingering wounds. He'd had worse.

Her former master had _given_ her worse and then hung around in her own head to haunt her.

It had taken Mara a long time to come to after the fight, and Luke had been exhausted himself. A gentle pressure on his hand had woken him from the chair at her bedside; his eyelids fluttering, haze with sleep, to stare into her brilliant gaze. Luke wished, in hindsight, that he'd had something clever to say. But she'd caught him off guard, as she always did, and all he'd managed was an awkward: " _Hi, Mara. I'm glad you're alright. Are you alright?"_

She'd rolled her eyes at him, before smiling in a manner that left him quite unable to breathe. " _I'll live, Farmboy."_

He smiled at the memory and continued on past the medbay into the main cargo hold, deploying his tremendous personal experience to detect the traditional sort of practical jokes that could lie in wait in such a place. The Rogues had perfected _that_ art years ago, but Luke had no doubt that Karrde's smugglers could show Wedge's merry band of scoundrels a thing or two, if even half of what Mara told him about them was actually true.

Luke carefully circled and avoided the forward cargo area where the ysalamirs slept and made the area a void in the Force, something no sensation or premonition could escape. In all of Luke's travels, it was this rare and seldom-seen forest dwelling creature alone that made it impossible for a Force-sensitive to draw upon its power.

It didn't _bother_ him exactly, but he didn't like it either.

"Don't worry," Karrde said as he approached from behind him. "They aren't here for you. I believe in being prepared and—" he paused for a moment, peering back the way he'd come for a moment "—Mara appreciates having them aboard. There were times before Wayland she would take sanctuary in a bubble. Sometimes sleep in that section."

Luke hesitated before nodding, reassured by the 'before Wayland' caveat in that statement. He wasn't sure how much Karrde knew about Mara's past, exactly, and while Karrde was her employer and her friend, that didn't mean it was Luke's place to discuss her personal life with him. "At this point, I wouldn't trade it for anything, but for some sensitivity to the Force can be a burden, as well as a gift," he said instead. "I remember Master Kenobi was attuned enough to feel Alderaan from sectors away."

Karrde winced. "I think your perspective has been good for Mara. In the last year it appears to have been far more the latter than the former."

Luke smiled. "Good, I'm glad."

"I thought you would be." Karrde glanced sideways at him. "Are you comfortable with what I'm asking of you on Rendili?"

A year or two before Luke would've been less confident. But he had more experience with manipulating perceptions now, and Karrde wasn't asking him to do anything that would cause permanent damage. "Yes," he replied calmly. "It's a good plan, but I'll need a disguise."

"As will I," Karrde agreed. "You wouldn't know it, but Chin is a master of them. I know for a fact that he's been looking forward to seeing what you look like with a Froffli-style haircut."

Luke blanched. "If it's absolutely necessary, but I'd rather not go that far."

"A pity," Karrde said. "I believe Dankin was hoping to sell holos afterwards."

"I would think that with the Smugglers' Alliance operational a few credits from sludgenews would be beneath him."

"More for in-network favor trading than anything else, but still, I'd wager you underestimate your worth," Karrde chuckled. "And you overestimate the Smugglers' Alliance. Perhaps it will be worth so much in the future, but for now it is still very much a new endeavor. Smugglers do not turn down free credits, leverage, or favors—and we remain smugglers still—even if our business is now technically on the legal side." They stopped in the small lounge, comfortable if compact. It had a few comfortable chairs arranged around the walls, and quick exits to both the bridge down the hall and engineering and Karrde poured himself a cup of caf which wafted a rich, enticing aroma upward, before gesturing at Luke, who accepted with a welcome smile. "The organization has a great deal of potential of course, but what it will be when all is said and done is impossible to know. It will depend on what the New Republic needs, what our smugglers eventually decide they want, and on the actions of a few vital people."

"People like me and my friends and family, I'd imagine," Luke said as he sipped his caf. It was quite good, significantly better than anything the Rogues had ever had while he led the squadron. For starters, it didn't have a thin film of machine oil on top of it, a seeming standard for all hot fleet beverages. Still, it wasn't quite as up to the level of the artisanally-spiced caf that Leia kept in her office, but Leia probably was one of the only people in the galaxy who sought to impress guests even more than Karrde did. "Including yourself."

Karrde shrugged. "Perhaps. I certainly will serve as a… fulcrum, of sorts. My reputation and the size of my organization will draw the Fringe closer than it might otherwise be willing to come. But I will not be the one performing the day to day work on Coruscant, or attempting to persuade the Senate to reduce tariffs or deregulate controlled items, or attempting to soothe them when things inevitably go wrong."

"So you mean Mara."

"For now," Karrde confirmed. "She is one of the few people who I trust to be capable, but it's hard to say whether she will want the position a few years down the road."

Luke could feel Karrde's eyes on him. "I haven't given her my recruitment pitch to join the Jedi Order," he said calmly. "I don't even have one. Or an Order for her to join at this point."

"But you will, eventually. And you will want her to join you."

"I only know of a few people with Force-talents, and of them Mara is the only one who received training other than myself," Luke said. "So yes, of course I would want her help. But what she chooses to do will be up to her." He paused, holding his warm cup of caf in his hands, before taking another sip. "The Force has been used against her for most of her life. I don't want to—no, I _won't_ do anything that puts pressure on her."

Karrde sipped his caf, his expression neutral.

"I'll keep teaching her, if she wants to be taught. But there is a galaxy of difference between learning how to use the Force, and choosing to become a Jedi." Luke shrugged. "The Force chooses us as much as we choose it, but not every Force-strong individual chooses the life of the Jedi. That was true before Palpatine wiped us out, and it will likely be even more true after." He sighed softly, remembering his own winding, slow, precipitous path down the road to becoming a Jedi Knight. "If she decides that she never wants to take that path, then we'll walk another."

Karrde's lip twitched. "I'm sure," he said finally. He put down his cup, washed it out, and placed it on the rack to dry. "I look forward to more fruitful discussions in that vein over the years."

* * *

"Raise," said Dankin, nonchalantly tossing another credchit into the smaller pot in the center of the table. The ysalamiri attached to the tree hanging above them blinked slowly, almost entirely still from where it was wrapped around the long tree branch that jutted out over the hastily-arranged table and chairs.

Luke examined his cards, his gaze flicking from them to the ysalamiri five feet from his head. The lizard's eyes were closed, its scaly length remarkably camouflaged with the bark of the tree it was attached to, and camouflaging the Force just as well to the Jedi Knight. It was an odd sensation. When Luke focused, it made him mildly nauseous.

He focused on his cards instead.

"Oi, the Jedi can't be using any of his Force powers to cheat, can he?" asked Chin, tossing in a matching amount.

"That's what Karrde says," replied Dankin. "Not with our little friend here at the table. Right, Skywalker?"

"Right," Luke said. "But you do realize I'm Han Solo's brother-in-law, right?" He put his own ante into the hand pot.

Faughn quietly added her own credchit, watching the others without contributing to the conversation much.

"Solo's got skill," Dankin conceded. "He _was_ one of the best, before he went respectable. But just being taught by one of the best doesn't make you one of the best." He put down his hand, showing a hand that summed a solid twenty-one. The others showed their hand, and Dankin smiled coyly and collected the hand pot. "See? Sabacc takes natural talent."

They started the new hand, collecting cards and putting credchits into the hand and sabacc pots.

"So, Skywalker," Dankin said. "Had any—" he wiggled his fingers in the air "—Force intuitions lately? Mara's been having more and more of them of late; they came in handy a few times on our trip out around the Outer Rim."

"Really?" His lips curled into a smile, "I'd like to hear about that later if you've got time," replied Luke, thinking of Mara. "Every time I've meditated of late I've had the same vision," Luke said.

"Oh? Not of us in danger I hope?" asked Chin cautiously.

Luke shook his head reassuringly. "No. I would have told Karrde already if it were. I've been having a vision of a Jedi and a student doing lightsaber training. One of the practice katas. The student is having trouble performing them properly, and the master is encouraging him to listen to the Force." He sat up in his chair. "' _Stretch out and feel the Force. We will show you the way',_ " he quoted the master from the vision, before chuckling. "He seems less intense than Yoda was."

"Yoda?"

"Picture a small green Nala-frog of a barve, speaking in riddles and whacking you about the knees with a stick." There was a ripple of laughter and surprise that went around the table. "But that seems to be the only vision the Force is showing me," said Luke. "Maybe I'll see more of it as time passes. The Force clearly is trying to tell me something, I'm just not sure what it is yet." He shook his head. "I feel like I'm missing something obvious, to be honest."

"Maybe you are," said Chin. He drew a card, exchanging it for another. "Or maybe there's another piece you're still missing that you need to put it all together." He nodded at Dankin, who anted up and exchanged a card of his own. "I bet Mara could figure it out," Chin added. "Never seen a puzzle she couldn't solve with brains, beauty, or brawn. Usually brawn."

"Probably," Luke laughed, feeling his lips twitch into a fond smile. "Maybe when things with the Smugglers' Alliance are more stabilized I'll see if I can get her help with it for a while." He paid the requisite fee to continue the hand and exchanged cards, drawing one of the Idiots in the deck.

"What do Jedi do, anyway?" asked Dankin.

Luke considered that. "I've been asking myself that question a lot lately," he said.

"Well, you and Mara killed that C'baoth scuzzer," Dankin said. "So really all I know about Jedi is that you've got mind powers," he wiggled his fingers, "and fight bad guys who also have daaaark—" Dankin wiggled his fingers again "—mind powers."

"Nah," said Chin. "Jedis is about finding ways to solve disputes when no one else can. Resolving disagreements without violence." He used his free hand to wave an expansive circle in the air. "Being able to see the big picture, that other people can't, and find a way to go forward. And when for they can't," he continued slyly, "they have a laser sword."

"Older smugglers have stories about Jedi," added Faughn. "Back before the Empire. You wouldn't have any trouble with them as long as you weren't hurting anyone, even if you were doing things that were illegal. But if you hurt someone and a Jedi was around…" she plucked a card from the deck and tossed one of hers away, "you would have trouble. They said Black Sun and the Hutts weren't so strong under the Old Republic, because of the Jedi."

"Personally," said Karrde from the doorway, standing just out of the radius of the light illuminating the table. They all jumped, even Luke—without the Force, he hadn't had forewarning of Karrde's presence. "I always heard the Jedi were the guardians of the Republic, but to be honest when asked people didn't usually know what that meant. By the end, most only remembered seeing them on the front lines of the Clone Wars."

The bet had come back to Luke again and, finally liking his hand, he was in. "I've heard all these stories too, and ones much less complimentary," he said, getting rid of the Idiot and drawing another card. "I imagine they are all true, from a certain point of view."

"What is yours?" asked Karrde.

"I haven't decided yet," said Luke. "I'm still trying to figure that out. I hope, though, that in the end the answer is we're all of the good things and as few of the bad as possible." He glanced over at Karrde. "I'm not foolish enough to think there won't be any bad. As Leia's told me over and over, good intentions aren't enough for good outcomes."

His cards glittered, and everyone at the table took a breath as the characteristic element of sabacc—the possibility that all the cards could randomly change to any other card at any time—took hold. Luke found himself holding a pure twenty-three and flashed it to his now-disheartened tablemates, grinning a Solo-taught smirk as he raked up both the hand and the sabacc pots, adding them to the growing pile of credchits next to him.

"Speaking of outcomes, did I mention I used to play quite a bit with my squadron?"

Chin glared at the ysalamiri. "Oi, Thrawnie the Useless, you're lettin' me down out 'ere," he complained. The ysalamiri ignored him, but pivoted its head towards Luke and gave a long slow blink.

Karrde pulled out the free chair and sat. "Deal me in. I want to see if I can out-bluff a Jedi."

* * *

"Are you sure this is _absolutely_ necessary?"

"I remember what you looked like coming out of the forest on Myrkr," Chin replied, applying the last touches on Luke's makeup. "Terrible disguise, that was. Far worse than this. And it had to hurt."

"Mara took as much delight in applying it to me then as you're taking now," Luke grumbled.

"Whatever works," Chin laughed. "We all think she needs a little more fun in her life." He gripped Luke's cheek and pulled on it, then stepped back and admired his work. "There. You look nothing like Luke Skywalker, Jedi Knight." He drew his arm out with a flourish. "B'hold, and weep, the galaxy's noble 'ero has a new face."

Luke glared at him, then stepped over so he could see the floor-length mirror that rested along the wall of Chin's quarters. "Huh," he said, tilting his head to the side. The touches of makeup shifted his features enough that his resemblance to Luke Skywalker could plausibly be overlooked as a coincidence, and with the colored lenses and hair dye, combined with the slight change in the pigmentation of his skin, it might just work.

"Here," Chin said, handing him a uniform. "One junior Lieutenant in the service of the Corporate Sector Transit Authority." He also handed him a datapad. "And the rest of your identity packet. Ghent's work, but I made a few tweaks for realism and dramatic effect."

"Dramatic effect, huh," Luke muttered. He examined the datapad, reading quickly. It had been a while since he'd been sent on an infiltration—not counting the mission he and Iella had done for Cracken on Corellia six months before—and this reminded him of nothing more than a last-minute briefing before an ill-conceived intelligence op.

"And I should warn you, the Capt' likes to improvise." Chin leaned in. "He's got more dramatic flair than the rest of us put together, though Dankin tries real hard."

"Great," Luke replied with a sigh. "Anything else I should know?"

Chin held up a comlink, then a datapad, and then finally Luke's blaster. "Well, this is a blaster," he said, gesturing at the weapon. "The trigger is here, and this is the safety—"

Luke scooped the blaster out of his hands, checked the charge and gas canister for damage, and holstered it. He was particularly careful to make sure that Mara's electroscope was firmly attached and undamaged. "Do you give all your guests such sterling personal service, or do they have to pay extra?"

"Can't rightly say. We don't have many." Chin adopted a thoughtful expression. "But we haven't locked you up yet this time." He patted Luke's arm reassuringly, abruptly becoming more serious. "Karrde doesn't usually do these missions himself, but on this one he feels a certain personal obligation to take the risks. We're not gettin' paid by NRI, this is pure charity—Karrde is trying to repay his debts to Gillespee, and this is his way of doing that." He lifted an eyebrow. "That's another way of saying bring him back safe, hee?"

Luke adjusted his new comlink and slid the datapad into its spot on his belt. "I get it, Chin. He may not be my boss, but I consider him a friend too. And I know Mara does. If anything happened to him, she'd find ways to make me miserable." He offered a confident smile he'd learned to use before ordering the Rogues into battle. "We can handle it. This one's not so tough, I've done worse."

"I remember," Chin nodded. "Also, when you get back we're definitely messing with your hair. We'll give you a share of the profits and everything. You did win the sabacc pot, so you owe us."

"You and Janson would get along like an orphanage on fire," Luke muttered. "Vultures, all of you. I'll think about it, but I'm not promising anything." He finished adjusting the outfit, looking himself over in the mirror. He looked like a moderately-incompetent, too-young security officer from the Outer Rim. Perfect. "How long until we reach Rendili?"

The _Wild Karrde_ gave a smooth jolt common to the drop out of hyperspace. "My Smuggler senses tell me just about now," Chin said with a grin.

* * *

The Rendili system was one of the oldest shipbuilding systems in the galaxy. It wasn't _the_ oldest—that honor belonged to Kuat, where Kuat Drive Yards had been founded 25,000 years ago. But the Rendili Hyperworks were nearly as old, some 20,000 years old. During the Old Republic, the system had been the heart of the shipbuilding industry, out-competing Kuat and acquiring multiple extremely lucrative contracts, including the contract for the _Katana_ Dreadnaught, which had been exclusively produced at the Hyperworks. It continued to be vital under the Empire, but the largest contracts inevitably went to other shipbuilders, leaving Rendili back in its traditional role of Kuat's little brother.

But Rendili was nonetheless still one of the busiest systems in the galaxy, and the Hyperworks—which consisted of thousands of dispersed construction platforms that stretched through the entire system, mostly clustered where the system's asteroid belt (long since mined to exhaustion) had once been—were busy, even if they weren't _Super-_ class Star Destroyer busy.

Colonel Demetrius Mendelholm was, like most of the station's staff, a Rendili native. Technically he was a part of the Imperial military, but that was only a technicality—he had been recruited, trained, and served in the Rendili Military Services Committee's Designated Task Force, under the direct command of the Arch-Provost. Which was Rendili's unnecessary cumbersome way of saying the Rendili System Defense Forces. At some point, Mendelholm suspected, the last of Hyperworks' Imperial contracts would expire—they no longer built as many _Victory-_ class Star Destroyers as they used to, and the design was approaching obsolescence—and Rendili would simply dissolve its formal ties with the Empire.

Until then, he had to deal with the _actual_ representatives of the Imperial military constantly hovering over his shoulder. Colonel Farwell, the Imperial commander and overseer of Station _51X-9525,_ walked into the station's security center and nodded at him. "Colonel," he greeted.

"Colonel," Mendelholm echoed. "How's the caf this morning?"

"Terrible."

"Is it ever not terrible?"

"Not in my experience."

Farwell's clipped, aristocratic Coruscanti accent was outrageously annoying, and Mendelholm hated his guts. The Empire insisted on having oversight over _51X-9525_ starting about a year or two ago _,_ although why they bothered he had no idea. Once upon a time, the facility had been at the cutting edge of research and development, but the bevy of scientists and researchers and technicians and engineers down in the guts of the station hadn't produced anything in ages, and all Farwell ever did was make his life miserable, drink their station caf, and carry around an undeserved, smug sense of superiority.

Mendelholm couldn't _wait_ until Rendili finally declared its independence. "We've got a freighter scheduled to pick up some cargo today," he said. "An Action IV. I've sent the specs over to you for review."

Farwell picked a datapad up off his station, then tabbed through his messages. "What are they here for?" he asked without looking up.

There was the slow alert sound that indicated an arriving ship. Mendelholm turned to his right, looking out the observation window over the bay as the freighter came slowly into the hangar, settling to the deck with a neat, skillful landing. He looked back to his own datapad. "Says here they're picking up a variety of spare parts for Vicstars. Must be a ship out in the Corporate Sector with a sudden shortage."

"Why are they picking them up here?" asked Farwell with a frown, paying full attention to him for the first time that day. For the first time in a month, Mendelholm thought sourly. "There are at least a hundred other platforms in the system they could pick up those parts from."

"Yes," Mendelholm explained slowly, trying to keep his contempt out of his voice and not quite succeeding, "but we build some of those components here, and we'll have to ship them out sooner or later. The Vice-Provost's office assigned this freighter to us."

"I don't like it," Farwell muttered.

Mendelholm wanted to put his face in his hands. Farwell never liked _anything_ that made life easier. "Look, they're only sending two people to help with the loading process," he said, trying to sound soothing. "Our people will load all the packages onto the conveyors, and they won't go anywhere sensitive." _Not that there's anything sensitive left on this worthless hunk of spinning metal._ "It will be fine."

"I still don't like it," Farwell repeated, and Mendelholm wondered how badly a murder conviction would set his career back. It couldn't be _that_ bad. Besides, maybe he'd find ten to twenty years on Kessel relaxing. At least there wouldn't be any Imperial stooges floating around his office, chirping at him like the most annoying of Candorian magpies. "They can come aboard, but I insist that they stay here with us for the entire duration of their stay."

"Fine, fine," sighed Mendelholm. "I'll have them brought here as soon as they arrive. We can make smalltalk with them." _I'm sure they'll be better conversation than you. But I've had better conversations with Threepio droids._ He lifted his comlink. "Trooper GX-106, please have our guests brought to Security once they've passed their contraband checks." He very carefully did not scowl at Farwell. He did start considering new careers. _I always wanted to be a chef when I was a child. Is it too late to go that route now? I know there's a decent culinary school in Ervinger. But what's required for admission to culinary school? I bet—_

His train of thought was interrupted by a loud, robust conversation. "Well, my boy, that was quite a good performance on the landing," an older man, greying at the temples was saying energetically. He had an odd accent, distinctive yet not quite placeable, and wore a Corporate Sector Security uniform. "You landed the ship without so much as a scratch! It was a perfect performance. I daresay you performed even better than expectations." The man stopped and offered Mendelholm and Farwell an enormous grin. "You two must be in charge of this station and its security! It's my pleasure to meet you. My name is Captain Nail Dokket, and this here is my new helmsman Derek—"

The younger man, perhaps in his early twenties, with dark hair and eyes, looked horribly embarrassed. Mendelholm couldn't blame him, and he would've said something in greeting except that he couldn't get a word in.

"—Derek is from Belderone, but I picked him on Corellia on our way out from the Corporate Sector," the older man was going on, seemingly losing none of his enthusiasm. "I didn't think much of him at first, but my niece seems to like him so I decided to give him a chance."

Mendelholm almost laughed at the suddenly frozen expression on the younger man's face. Sheer, unadulterated terror had crossed his expression and his cheeks had started to turn quite red. Mendelholm glanced over at Farwell, who was watching the exchange with a sort of dazed, distracted disbelief. Mendelholm understood—he was having a hard time looking away himself.

"It turns out he can really fly! Not surprising, everyone from Belderone is a born pilot, that's what my Uncle Drayvan says anyway. I wouldn't really trust Drayvan, though, he's a crook. But in this case he's right! Derek is quite a pilot, if our trip on this run is any indication. I decided to take him in to see what it looks like to pick up cargo—and speaking of," the man handed Mendelholm a datapad, "here's the list of the items we'll be picking up. Serial numbers and designations."

Amused, Mendelholm took the datapad and started inputting the codes into the system. There was movement out of the corner of his eye and he looked up but… no, there was nothing important there. He shook his head a bit and resumed his work.

"And that's it!" Captain Dokket was saying, with enthusiastic gesticulation. "You just tell them what you're here to pick up, you should have a full manifest prepared—Rendili is much more precise and competent than most of the rest of the galaxy, and you can count on your manifest to be valid when you arrive. It's not like cargo transfers in Corellia, which are very hit and miss—some runs it'll be smooth as Ottegan silk, other runs it'll be as tough as Athiss rough-grass." The older man turned towards the younger, putting one of his hands on both of Derek's shoulders. "Now, tell me." He leaned in, and Mendelholm again found he couldn't look away from the unfolding drama. "Young man, what intentions do you have towards my niece?"

The sheer terror that had been on Derek's face earlier redoubled, and all the color drained out of his face. "Is … _now_ really the best time for us to discuss this?" he managed. "Shouldn't it wait until we're back on the ship?"

"On the contrary. When else will we get the chance to talk alone without one of the crew listening in? They're born eavesdroppers, every one of them." Dokket jerked his thumb towards Mendelholm and Farwell. "These two probably don't care, and they'll forget all about us by mid-afternoon."

 _That_ was unlikely, thought Mendelholm, grinning. He leaned back in his chair, caught Farwell also unable to turn away. He was quite sure they'd be talking about this for _years._ They'd probably even be interested in hearing about it in culinary school.

Through the observation window, the conveyor belts were now rolling, and large cargo boxes were being brought across the floor of the hangar and into the Action IV's cargo bay. It's large, mouth-like cargo door was dropped open, and the large packages of spare parts were being mechanically moved from the floor conveyor onto one that lined the cargo door, which took each of the large packages and ushered them into the freighter's maw. For other deliveries, Mendelholm would more diligently watch the process unfold, but the drama of Captain Dokket was not to be missed.

Derek didn't answer, looking away and visibly trying to come up with an answer. His expression was pinched with fear and embarrassment and focus, and Mendelholm had to lean in to hear. "Well, Captain…" the young man started slowly, finding himself quite trapped in the older's gaze. When he did speak there was a bit more strength to it than Mendelholm had expected, and he found himself rooting for the young man. "I think _that_ is up to _her_."

"But it is something _you_ want." Dokket's tone was confident and certain, and his gaze bored into Derek with a calm certainty that ought to have made the shorter man melt. To his credit, Derek didn't back down or look away—or deny the accusation. Dokket nodded once, as if his suspicions were confirmed, and then turned back to the two Colonels. "My apologies for the drama, gentlemen, but this was the only time the young man and I could have this conversation without interruption."

There was a loud buzzer and all four of them looked up. The cargo transfer was complete. Mendelholm took the datapad which had listed the ship's requisitions manifest and handed it back to Dokket. "It appears you've paid in advance for the cargo, and it should all be loaded now."

Derek's expression was pinched with concentration and worry, and Mendelholm offered him a reassuring smile. "Safe journey."

Dokket threw his arm around Derek's shoulders and they turned towards the door.

Mendelholm turned to Farwell. "That was strange."

"Think the kid will survive the trip back to the Corporate Sector?"

The question was so out of character for Farwell that Meldelholm gave him a second look. The Imperial Colonel had a stupefied expression, but there was a hint of fondness to it, and Meldelholm thought that perhaps Farwell hoped young Derek _would_ survive the trip back. And maybe even survive dating Dokket's niece. It was, Mendelholm thought, probably the first time he'd ever been in agreement with Farwell since the nerf had been assigned to his station. "I don't know, but I wish him luck."

* * *

Karrde leaned towards Luke, huddling near him and pretending to murmur something as Artoo-Detoo wheeled—as quietly as the little astromech could manage—around in front of them. The two Colonels still seemed not to have noticed the droid, and he and Luke were _so close_ to getting back out of the security office.

They'd had to come in here. There was no way for them to simply steal the package they sought, not with all the security mechanisms between the hangar bay and the secret research facilities in the deeper levels. But they didn't have to—they simply needed to requisition it through the Empire's own main station computer. Thanks to Karrde's informant, they knew exactly which designation they needed to requisition, they just needed to make the requisition from an authorized terminal. That had been Mara's final contribution to this little mission of his—computer access codes to the Imperial computer mainframe, which had allowed Artoo-Detoo to slice into the system, tell the computer to ship a classified piece of technology up from its location in the system's deep storage system, and deliver it to the hangar where the _Wild Karrde_ was patiently waiting. After that, the automated loading system, which would have no way of knowing that the perfectly legitimate instructions it had just been given were anything more than what they appeared to be, would do the rest.

So far, Luke's mind-trick had kept the droid out of their awareness. If they moved fast enough, maybe it would stay that way. He triggered the door and the droid wheeled out, Karrde and Luke following, Karrde's arm still thrown around his shoulders.

"That _wasn't_ what we rehearsed," Luke hissed once they were outside, heading down the corridor back towards the _Wild Karrde_.

"True," Karrde admitted quietly. "But you said the distraction would work best if there was real emotion involved. This worked much better than anything we discussed." They walked along the corridor behind Artoo, Luke depressing the awareness of the various Imperial personnel in the facility, allowing them to focus on him and Karrde, but keeping Artoo out of their awareness. As far as they were concerned, the little droid wasn't even there, and as most people paid little attention to droids in the first place, it wasn't that hard to push their awareness fully away.

Luke spared enough of his attention to continue the conversation, his tone accusing. "You wouldn't have done that if M—if _your niece_ was here."

"You'd be surprised. She's quite adept at dramatic improvisation. Though, usually with some sort of weapon for additional punctuation…"

* * *

The crew of the _Wild Karrde_ stood outside the large container that they had managed to secret out of Rendili Station _51X-9525_. The _Wild Karrde_ had managed to slip out of the system and back into hyperspace as quietly and innocuously as it had entered it; the entire visit had taken less time than a usual cargo run. _There are benefits to collaboration with New Republic Intelligence,_ Karrde thought with a smile.

Dankin hefted a large mechanical crowbar, and he and Chin went to work opening the box. They pried off the security latch first, then went to work on the box itself.

"Are you sure you don't want me to just cut it open?" Luke asked.

"No, that's all right. I don't want to risk whatever is inside being damaged, and we don't know how far it is from the inside of the container," Karrde said.

Luke had never quite stopped glowering at him, but he'd get over it. It wasn't as if Karrde really _needed_ confirmation that Luke had feelings for Mara, that was plain to anyone who saw them together for more than five minutes. Well, anyone except Mara apparently. But he had certainly enjoyed watching the normally completely calm and controlled Jedi twitch like a marionette when confronted with it. Besides, Mara was one of his people. That made her happiness one of his priorities.

With a grunt, Dankin and Chin finished opening the box. "Oh no," said Faughn, groaning and covering her mouth.

Dankin and Chin shared an unhappy expression, then both looked to their boss. "It's empty, Capt'," said Chin. "There's nothing in here."

"Is that right?" Karrde asked calmly, peering into the box. It was, indeed, empty. "Excellent."

His crew stared at him in confusion, and Karrde produced a remote that he and Mara had retrieved in the Corporate Sector from a certain disgruntled Rendili StarDrive employee. Smiling, he pressed the button with flourish.

A panel on the side of the box beeped in response, and an enormous contraption abruptly appeared in the empty box. Faughn yelped in surprise, and Dankin and Chin both jumped back, Dankin holding the crowbar like a battleaxe. Sadly, Skywalker didn't seem at all surprised. "A working cloaking device," the Jedi said.

"Yes," Karrde said smugly. "A working cloaking device."


	18. Chapter Seventeen

The _Lefler's Rose_ lacked a full communications suite, so Vorru had converted one of its unused passenger cabins into one on a temporary basis. He wasn't excessively concerned about security—there were no people on the ship, except maybe the pilot, who were theoretically dangers to him, and they'd already passed through the customs hurdle—but there were certain habits it was best to rigorously maintain, and communications security was one of them.

Leonia Tavira's face wore a smug expression that he found rather distasteful. "I have Moff Disra under control for now, but his anxiety is growing," she said. "It would be best not to leave him hanging, or the rope might snap. I believe Admiral Rogriss has learned that _Invidious_ is occupying the repair yards and is quite irritated about it."

Vorru leaned back in his chair, steepling his hands together. "Disra is an irritant, but also an asset," he said. "We're better off having him as a tool we can use than allowing him to expire. He knows that as well... but he always had a tendency to panic when things got threatening," Vorru mused thoughtfully. "I suppose it's best to give him some salve. What do you have in mind?"

Tavira's smile was her familiar, predatory one. "Disra believes that you have the ability to hunt down information with the HoloNet," she said, arching an eyebrow. Her tone was coy, and he could see her enjoying the surprise he couldn't quite keep from his face.

"Does he," Vorru replied, keeping his own tone cool. It wasn't really surprising, but there was no reason not to let Tavira enjoy her momentary advantage. "Well, I suppose that Disra always had a certain cleverness, otherwise he wouldn't have made it as far as he has. Do you think we ought to give him what he wants?"

"I do," Tavira replied, crossing her legs as she pushed her hair back, adjusting her bandada. "I have access to Rogriss' last combat report, and I noticed a certain Corellian corvette and squadron of X-wings making mayhem for Rogriss' logistics. I have a small grudge against them myself, and I thought that perhaps they would make an ideal candidate for testing your pet Drall's abilities."

Vorru considered that, not letting himself react to the derogatory reference to Eliezer. "I will see what we can do. Send me that combat report, and I'll forward it on. Perhaps we can give Rogriss a badly needed victory. How long before _Invidious'_ repairs are complete?"

"Another four or five days," she replied. "Maybe longer. I've put the facility's labor force to work resupplying my lost TIEs. It took them a little while to get a handle on how to assemble a clutch, but they have or can acquire all the necessary components to make good on the losses I accrued helping you rescue your pet."

No doubt that process would also deprive both Linuri and Rogriss of all their reinforcement TIE interceptors, but that was hardly Tavira's concern, Vorru thought sourly. Though it wasn't as if he was particularly invested in Rogriss' long-term success holding Ukio. The Empire was dying, and he wasn't about to hitch his futures to a half-drowned shadow of past glories. He'd already made that mistake once.

His communications station beeped as the combat report finished downloading, and he transferred it onto a datapad. "I'll have something for you before your repairs are complete," he said.

Tavira's eyes gleamed. "When do you go after the real prize?"

Vorru smiled thinly at her. "Soon. Good day, Moff Tavira."

She chuckled. "Of course. Good day, Moff Vorru."

Vorru exited the makeshift comm station back into the primary lounge, where Eliezer's workstation was assembled. Behind his primary screen the Drall coughed heavily, wiping his snout with the back of a furred arm. He looked up from his screen as he heard Vorru approach, the steady clacking of his claws on the keyboard ceasing as his attention shifted. "What did Tavira want?"

"Disra is growing restless," he replied as he drew a chair to sit across from the Drall, placing his elbows on the table and leaning forward. "We're going to need to give him something to make his position a bit more secure." He pursed his lips as he considered possibilities. "Can you identify the New Republic's ships in Albrion sector?"

Eliezer's claws scraped over the arm of his chair. "Tracking ships is a lot of time and effort," he said, "especially without a full computer and droid suite to help me sort through all the information. But I can still use pings against the HoloNet nodes as an effective tracker, yes."

It was impossible to track a ship through hyperspace. Even a tracking device only operated between hyperspace jumps, sending information through the HoloNet before a ship began its jump, and after a ship completed its jump. Eliezer had once explained to him, years before, that a holocomm was essentially a tracking device. Every time a ship used one to connect to the HoloNet, it provided the connecting node with an incredible amount of information, including its location. This 'metadata' didn't go anywhere, and most of it wasn't publicly accessible; it was buried deeply into the HoloNet, saved to seemingly forgotten files.

Unless you knew how to access them. Vorru did not… but Eliezer did.

The HoloNet was ancient, and Vorru suspected that at some point during its design process, maybe six or seven thousand years ago, one of the original designers had seen the HoloNet as a potential espionage tool. Perhaps their heirs still used it for that purpose. Or perhaps it was an addition Palpatine had made to the system more recently, seeking to enhance his all-consuming control over the galaxy. Or it may have been there for a reason entirely unrelated to espionage, long since forgotten. Vorru didn't know, and for the moment it didn't matter how or why the information was collected and anonymously saved to files which Eliezer had years ago stumbled across. What mattered was that it was there.

"I just need you to find just one ship, for now. A modified Corellian corvette named _Ession Strike._ It's the ship that harassed us during your escape," he said. "We know its last location, also; it was just engaged in the Ukio system, fighting Admiral Rogriss. That should narrow it down, yes?"

Eliezer's claws scratched harder over the arm of his chair as his snout wrinkled, his beady black eyes narrowing in concentration. "Yes, that should help me find it," he agreed. "But it will still take some time. The files are enormous and can be unwieldy to sort through, and I'll have to set up a search function manually. And I can't get started right away—we have more pressing obligations that shouldn't wait."

"After we break into Isard's safehouse, then," Vorru said with a nod. "Are you ready?"

Eliezer nodded, looking fatigued. "I am ready," he said. "Not looking forward to it, but ready. Are you?"

Vorru nodded firmly. "I'll make one more call to Roeder, and then I am ready. We'll go tonight."

* * *

The airspeeder meandered through Coruscant's aerial traffic as if it were just another vehicle out for a late-evening drive. On either side of them, Argosy District's largest, most ornately decorated and lavishly furnished buildings gleamed with lights matched by the long lines of glowing airspeeders. The speeders hummed in and out of line, landing on the reinforced balcony landing platforms that all the buildings had on offer.

In addition to being one of Coruscant's primary business and financial districts, Argosy District also had a reputation for a busy, dramatic nightlife, as all those businesspeople ended their daily work routines and went in search of relaxation with credits to burn. Large transparisteel windows peered out into the urban canyon, and within the windows life was as busy as it was beyond them, with people mingling and socializing. But below them, forty or fifty stories down, those same structures possessed humans and aliens of a distinctly different character; less prosperous, more desperate, looking not for an enjoyable evening but for a quiet, safe one.

The emotional intermingling of the rapturous cacophony of luxury with the quiet desperation of poverty, all within his mental reach, was not new to the Tevas-kaar, but it had been a long time since he had experienced it in such density. Coruscant's sheer weight of population made the city pulse with emotion almost like a heartbeat. Susevfi had some of the same emotional flavors, but it was not nearly so overpowering, and of course life on _Invidious_ was life living among wolves—rapacious, sometimes vicious, always hungry for the next good meal.

The trip with Vorru and Eliezer had been almost a relief. They weren't like Tavira or the people Tavira surrounded herself with. Vorru had a bit of the wolf, but restrained by refinement. The restraints were not binding—he'd seen that with the way Vorru had unceremoniously murdered Acib—but they were there, and while Vorru's politeness was perhaps a facade, his mind was ordered and diligent. Eliezer was harder to read; the Tevas-kaar had never been as skilled at comprehending alien minds as human ones, but in Eliezer he could feel the Drall's calm preparation, anticipation, and patience.

Speculating how Vorru and Eliezer had ended up being partners had entertained him through many a dull hour of waiting. Speculation about both of their ultimate objectives had passed many other dull hours of waiting. But he knew his role. He served.

The airspeeder dipped out of line with the rest of the traffic, dropping down until it reached what would be considered the lowest levels of prosperity. These were far quieter, darker, with fewer lights and no large gatherings of people behind large windows. There was still airspeeder traffic enough, but not in the volume that occurred above. They neared one of the newer towers, a simple, inauspicious building that blended seamlessly in with the ones on either side. Its highest levels saw plenty of airspeeder traffic, but more leaving than coming.

The settled onto a landing platform, dim lights automatically illuminating as the airspeeder's repulsorlifts went quiet. The Tevas-kaar opened the vehicle's door, swinging it up as Vorru did the same on the other side, Eliezer sliding out of the car slowly after them, looking miserable. "Are you sure this is safe," he muttered to Vorru.

"It's as safe as it can be," the Moff replied. "Roeder has support standing by if we need it, and you said there is no sign that this safehouse has been used in some time."

"True," Eliezer growled softly, his snout wrinkling with distaste. "Okay. Let's do this. Which way?"

Vorru nodded at the Tevas-kaar. "After you."

The Tevas-kaar frowned, wishing he were wearing his mask—but Vorru was right, it was too conspicuous for now. He took a moment to adjust his armor under his bulky clothes, fitting it securely back into place after the airspeeder ride. Once he was sure he was prepared, he gently tapped the entry door with the ID card that Eliezer had made him. The name Rasmus Damask appeared on the attached screen in blocky green font, then the door clicked open.

He pushed through it, ignoring the twinge in his danger sense.

At this level, the apartments belonged to employees of the major local businesses. It was well-enough maintained, but not ornate, with occasionally flickering lights on the hall. The floor was made of a material that had the appearance of wood, but not any of wood's maintenance requirements, and each door was labeled with only a number. Occasionally they would pass shoes or bags or other personal items against the walls or doors.

They reached the end of the first short hallway, after passing about six apartments on either side. The lift arrived after a brief wait and a couple stumbled out, gave the three of them (especially him and Eliezer; Vorru got barely a glance) and then moved down the hall at a more-brisk-than-normal pace and shut themselves behind one of the doors they'd passed.

The trio entered the lift, and Vorru pressed the button for their destination. They descended two levels and exited into an identical floor, with more of the same style of apartment, maintained almost exactly as well.

Walking back in the direction of the building's exterior, they reached Apartment 1788. Its door was like any of the others, though it had no items scattered about outside. The door was slightly more worn than some of its neighbors, as if it hadn't received a new coat of paint recently, and its keycard access terminal was just different enough from those of its neighbors for the difference to be notable.

The Tevas-kaar turned to watch the hallway, reaching out with the Force. He could feel the people above and below them, going about their daily lives; could feel the activity twenty stories above, with the congregations of people in the much larger, fancier skyward apartments. He did not feel anyone that seemed alert to their presence.

"We're clear, for now," he murmured to Vorru.

Eliezer was already working on the keycard terminal. He pulled out a datapad and plugged it in, then started clacking away on the datapad as he searched for a security vulnerability.

"How long will it take?" Vorru asked, his hand inside his jacket—clearly holding the blaster pistol he had hidden there.

"As I told you before we left, I don't _know,_ " Eliezer responded, sounding irritated. "It depends on how good Isard's security teams were." The Drall worked quickly, text scrolling across the datapad he was holding faster than the Tevas-kaar would've been able to read.

It seemed like a long time before anything happened, but the Tevas-kaar's wristcomm told him it had only been four and a half minutes. There was a beep, and the keycard terminal went green. Vorru didn't hesitate, pushing the door open and ushering all of them inside. The apartment within was dark, and the Tevas-kaar searched for the activator for the unit's lighting.

"Did you trip anything?" Vorru asked Eliezer.

"I don't think so," Eliezer responded, breathing heavily. "But that was a lot more complicated than I was expecting it to be. And older, too. Isard might've used this place, but I think it predated the Emperor's death by quite a while."

"Any idea who?"

The rustle of Eliezer's shoulders in the dark suggested he had just shrugged. "Someone who learned a lot of their computer skills during the days of the Old Republic. I'd guess this safehouse was set up when the building was first built."

The Tevas-kaar found the switch and flipped it, sending a flood of light through the apartment. Eliezer gasped, and Vorru stopped a step short.

The space was much larger than he had expected. It appeared, at first, to be a simple apartment—plain, heavily-built furnishings in the space near the door, stretching into a good sized kitchen against one of the walls. But on the wall opposite them, where normally windows would be, hung a large, three-story sized symbol of the Empire: The classic white and black symbol loomed over the entire lofted space.

The three of them just looked at it for a moment, then at each other. The Tevas-kaar felt a shiver of dread—a shiver the Empire had spent a great many years instilling into as much of the galaxy as possible—go down his spine. It was odd, he thought, that one could spend so many years being a tool of that dread, and yet never fully lose it themselves.

Eliezer's distasteful expression regarded the banner for only a moment. He started meandering through the room slowly, slightly hunched, searching for computer terminals. He found none, but the banner could stand three stories tall because the apartment interior stretched all the way up, with two levels of loft above them. Eliezer coughed, then shook his head with dismay and started climbing the narrow spiral staircase upwards. "The computers must be up here," he said.

Vorru stepped into the center of the room and looked up. From the floors above, there were flickers of light and the quiet whirring of machinery. "You're probably right. I'll come with you. Tevas-kaar, do a quick search of this floor and then join us."

The Tevas-kaar nodded. He stretched out in the Force as he meticulously searched all the places he was most likely to find recording equipment, knocking against the walls to make sure there were no hidden rooms. The apartment itself was remarkably unremarkable; the kitchen was extremely well-stocked with non-perishable food supplies which looked like they dated back to the Clone Wars. He pulled open a cabinet and found himself staring at dozens and dozens—perhaps hundreds—of boxes of Imperial ration bars, still in all the original packaging. Only a handful of them were missing. He checked the expiration date on one and found it would be good for another few centuries.

He closed the cabinet again and kept looking.

In the bedroom he found a hidden wall closet. Working his fingers along the edges of the not-quite-totally-hidden crease, he searched for the latch until he found it. It refused to budge, so he quickly ignited his lightsaber and swept it through the locking mechanism. The doors to the closet came free, and he was able to pull them open, an interior light triggering automatically as he did.

It was a weapons locker—no, not just a locker. A full, if somewhat small, armory. A collection of weapons: a longblaster, disassembled with a set of extra power packs; a blaster pistol of a particularly wicked make that looked vaguely familiar; a holdout blaster, which for him would be too small to easily wield but which an Imperial agent might be able to stash on their person. A collection of easily concealable vibroknives. And, he realized, his heartbeat quickening as he took his lightsaber and tested it against the empty hook, a spot for a _lightsaber._

His danger sense, before that moment a low, unnerving feeling of concern, suddenly became one of menace.

The Tevas-kaar hastened his search. Next to the weapons was a set of armor. He examined it quickly—black, flexible and comfortable, to be worn under thicker, equally black blaster-resistant synthfabric, with a few pieces of heavier but still lightweight armor for additional protection.

His feeling of dread heightened. He'd seen this fabric before, and the blaster too. Years before, such things had been available for secret Imperial agents. Custom make only. He removed pieces of the armor, looking for anything identifying. He found nothing, but he did learn that the armor was much too small for him. Much too small period—it was sized for a particularly petite alien, or maybe a human adolescent?

While he had never had the dubious pleasure of meeting Ysanne Isard, he—like everyone else in the Empire—had been quite familiar with her. She hadn't been the tallest woman, but at 1.8 meters in height she would certainly not have fit into this armor. He couldn't imagine which Imperial agent _would_ have.

The rest of the room was uninteresting. The bed was made, probably kept by service droids, though he hadn't seen any yet. It was otherwise empty, but for all the normal things an apartment would have.

His search had not revealed anything that could be considered an imminent threat. Regardless, his feeling of danger stubbornly refused to fade. " _Trust your feelings,"_ his master had taught him. Right then, his intuition was telling him that they were in far more jeopardy than appearances would indicate.

* * *

The second floor of the apartment, which was approximately level with the middle of the enormous Imperial symbol hanging against the wall, was nothing like the first. The loft swung out about one-third the distance over the living space below and was clearly not meant as a casual living space. Instead, Vorru and Eliezer found a large computer terminal, set with a comfortable chair. Eliezer was already sitting in it—conveniently, he didn't have to re-size it much to suit his small frame—inserting his datapad into the computer's available access ports.

"Isard's network access?" Vorru asked.

"I don't know," Eliezer coughed as he rolled the chair into place, adjusting it just a bit higher so his claws could move comfortably over the available keyboard. "Probably. Give me a minute to find out." The Drall went to work on his datapad, looking for security vulnerabilities and testing out the myriad of security codes that he'd procured to try to breach the computer.

Vorru knew he would succeed, but it was harder to guess how long it would take. "I'll check out the upstairs," he said, leaving Eliezer with the computers. He took the second spiral staircase up to the third floor loft. It was a small space compared to the lower two floors, and it took Vorru a second to realize what he was looking at.

 _A full holocomm suite. And a fancy one, too._ A secure communications unit, sized for one person. It included a compact platform which would, when active, project a hologram that would be fully-human sized (or even larger, though space here was limited). The platform itself, the floor plating with the holo-projectors, had a ceremonial feel to it. _Whoever was on this end of the communication was expected to kneel,_ he realized.

Palpatine.

Isard had served Palpatine directly, and would've been expected to kneel. This might have been where she expected to stay in contact with him—a way to be isolated in a safehouse and yet stay fully in command. With the holocomm she would be able to run Imperial Intelligence, do most of the Emperor's bidding, and be safely isolated in a nondescript safehouse all at the same time.

It would've suited both of them, he thought. Palpatine with his need for control and domination, for total subservience, and Isard with her need for praise and approval. This place would have suited her just fine. And when Palpatine had died, and Isard had quietly assumed his place, she would've been quite pleased to be the one being kneeled to, also.

Vorru traveled back down the stairs to rejoin Eliezer. "I found the holocomm," he said. "It's upstairs. A fancy one, one of the Emperor's personal appearance tools."

Eliezer seemed not to hear him. He was focused on the display in front of him, his claws clacking against the keyboard vigorously. It was a good ten seconds before he glanced at Vorru, belatedly processing the spoken information. "Good, that'll give me easy access to the Coruscant HoloNet node," he mumbled distractedly. He concentrated on the computer for a few minutes more, then hit a key with victorious finality. "I'm in," he announced, and the display before them, the large monitors arrayed conveniently, flickered to life. "Okay," Eliezer said as he started to sort through the myriad of data suddenly presented to them. "This next part might take a while."

On the screen before Eliezer and Vorru was Ysanne Isard's private secure network. As Eliezer searched, he and Vorru came across everything one might imagine in such a place: lists of covert operatives and their assignments, some of which appeared to still be active; thousands of dossiers on important politicians, corporations, and military officers; tens of thousands of intelligence reports, sortable by date, location, and reporting officer… all of the secret files of Ysanne Isard and, by the looks of some of the dates, of her father before her.

Ten years ago, while the Emperor had still lived, this information might have given Vorru the wherewithal to challenge him. Isard had been one of his most loyal and trusted advisors, loyal to his memory long after his death; loyal to his Empire because it had been _His Empire_. Now, ten years later, much of this information would be worthless, or outdated, or no longer relevant in a galaxy where the New Republic ruled Coruscant. But, New Republic or not, some people who had been powerful before remained powerful, and information always had value.

"Can you transfer these files off-site?" Vorru asked.

"Probably. Go back upstairs and get the holocomm up and running, and I'll start an upload. We can go through these once I have a computer system capable of sorting through it all," Eliezer coughed, his beady eyes locked raptly on the screen. "I don't see what we're looking for yet, though."

"Keep looking," Vorru instructed. He jogged back up the stairs, the old Kessel-inflicted aches and pains forgotten for the moment. The holocomm was a complicated piece of equipment, but essentially Imperial standard issue; he had the system up and connected to the HoloNet in only a few minutes. The steady buzz and hum of the equipment betrayed that it was in use, stealing all of Isard's secrets for future use.

He returned down the narrow spiral staircase. The Tevas-kaar was waiting for him at the bottom of the stairs, carrying his broad frame stiffly, his face covered once again by his white mask. The bronze of the tall man's armor was mostly concealed by the unremarkable brown of his long jacket.

"Did you find anything?" Vorru asked him.

"Not very much," the Tevas-kaar responded. "Some old equipment. It seems Isard had a child operative using this as a safehouse at some point."

"A child?" Vorru asked in surprise. "Why do you think a child?"

"No one else would fit into the armor I found," the Tevas-kaar said. For the first time Vorru thought he heard just a hint of sarcastic wit, although it was possible he was imagining it. Either way, it was gone. "But I don't think it has been used in quite some time. By now the child is certainly grown."

Vorru nodded slowly. A child? That was strange, to be certain, but not _completely_ unknown. Still, it wasn't like Isard; she had preferred to train her operatives herself, and while she would have appreciated the malleability of a child so that she could impose herself upon them, it struck Vorru as unlikely that she would have employed a child for intelligence work. Not impossible, though. Merely unlikely.

The Tevas-kaar's attention was wandering, his head tilted slightly towards the sky, peering back in the general direction of the center of Argosy District. That was unusual enough that Vorru felt the need to comment on it. "Is there something else?"

The tall man's masked face turned back to him, and Vorru found himself staring into the brown eyes of a d'oemir bear. In the dim light of the computer center, the white of his mask faded to a dull, slightly ghostlike appearance. Vorru couldn't see the man's expression, but the slight hunching of his shoulders betrayed enough nervousness that Vorru started to feel it himself. "I'm not sure," the Tevas-kaar said after a moment. "But I think we ought not to linger here any longer than we must. Something… feels wrong."

A shiver went down Vorru's spine. He'd never worked with Force adepts, not before the Tevas-kaar, and he'd only had occasion to meet Darth Vader once. He didn't understand the Force—it was said that none outside the Jedi really did—but he was familiar enough with its power from his experiences with Palpatine not to doubt the man's sincerity. And there was enough weight behind his words to take him seriously. Suddenly waiting for Eliezer to finish uploading all of Isard's secrets no longer seemed like the most important order of the day.

But he would not leave until he _knew_ Eliezer had exhausted every option to find the rest of what they had come for. "Let me know if you think we are in danger. Comm our pilot and tell him to take off and come back for us; I'll make sure our backup is in place."

The Tevas-kaar nodded, already reaching for his wristcomm.

Vorru took out his comlink. "Colonel Roeder?" he said.

"Roeder here," the comlink replied instantly.

"Are your men prepared in the event they are required?" Vorru asked, putting all the weight of Moffdom, not to mention the Underlord of Black Sun, into the words.

"I have three teams in Argosy District, awaiting your location and instructions."

"Very good. Stand by," Vorru said, switching the comlink back off.

"Fliry?" Eliezer's voice was rapt. Vorru had known the Drall for a long, long time, and never heard him so awed. "Fliry, I _found_ it."

He was back at the Drall's side in an instant. The screen was a mess of account numbers and passwords, and it took Vorru a second to realize what he was seeing. Once he did, he felt like the breath had been sucked from his chest. It took him another second to regain it, his heart thudding in his chest, blood pounding in his ears. There it was.

It wasn't much to look at. Just one line, among others. An account number. A password. A sum.

A staggeringly large sum. A sum so large that he almost had trouble conceptualizing what it meant. Almost.

"H-have…" His voice was throaty and haggard, and he was forced to clear his throat. "Have you started transferring the funds?" he asked, the awe in his voice matching the awe in Eliezer's.

He felt the Tevas-kaar peering over both their shoulders, and heard even him gasp.

"I spent days working up a routing system," Eliezer reminded him. "It will take some time to transfer it all… HoloNet credit transactions have a cap, so I'm having to utilize a few hundred different banking institutions and thousands of individual accounts. But after it's into the HoloNet I can make sure it's impossible to trace." He smirked, the first to recover. "I'll route most of it through Muunilist, they won't participate in any New Republic investigations."

Vorru nodded. He'd known it had to be here. Ysanne Isard's personal slush fund. Funded by years of the Emperor's largess… and her seizure of the previous Underlord, Prince Xizor's, personal fortune.

It wasn't all there. Isard had taken a fair amount of it when she'd abandoned Coruscant, and squandered much more of it even before her flight. But there was enough. There was more than enough.

"How long?" he asked Eliezer, still barely hearing himself speak.

"Twenty, thirty minutes… there are a _lot_ of credits here."

Vorru nodded, forcing himself to breathe. With the secrets, and the wealth, and Black Sun, and Eliezer's skills… he suddenly had more power at his fingertips than he'd had since Palpatine had stripped him of his Moffdom and sentenced him to life on Kessel. He was, in that instant, the most powerful person in the entire galaxy. And with that power, with the secrets and the money and the omniscience that Eliezer could offer, Fliry Vorru could _finally_ show Palpatine that he was the man's equal, Force or no Force.

Visions of future glory danced in his head.

Eliezer's claws clacked frantically over the keys, setting transactions in motion, buying and selling assets; Isard's personal accounts were laid bare and the fortune within vanished slowly but steadily into the HoloNet.

Time stretched, moving glacially slow as Eliezer worked.

"Moff Vorru," the Tevas-kaar said for a second time, the words finally breaking through the haze of Vorru's ambition. He turned slightly to look at the Tevas-kaar. The masked figure stood very still, peering up towards the sky, and Vorru got the distinct impression that the man's eyes were closed under the mask.

"Tevas-kaar?" he prompted.

The mask came down and brown eyes bored into him. "We need to leave," the Tevas-kaar said firmly.

Vorru's head shook automatically. "We can't leave. Eliezer is still transferring the funds—"

The Tevas-kaar grabbed his arm, one powerful, armored hand squeezing almost painfully. "We need to leave _now_ ," he insisted. "Or we're not going to be leaving at all."

Vorru swallowed, and looked at Eliezer. "How much longer?"

"I've got much of it. Almost fifty percent. Give me another ten minutes and I can get the rest of it," the Drall said hastily, the clacking of his claws interrupted by a hacking, desperate cough. "I'm starting an automatic routing program, in case we're interrupted here…" the clacking resumed, with even more haste.

"We can't leave yet," Vorru said firmly. He flicked his comlink, adjusting it to also transmit their location. "Roeder, send reinforcements to me now. We're about to have trouble."

The Tevas-kaar shook his head, a hint of anger in the motion, but he didn't object. His hand pulled the lightsaber from his cloak, holding it in a ready position, peering especially back towards Argosy District.

It was all quiet except for Eliezer's hasty efforts. Vorru watched the Tevas-kaar's head slowly turn, as if he was looking at an invisible foe on the far side of the walls. He peered up the spiral staircase to the holocomm facility on the third floor of the apartment, the only lights from up there coming from the equipment; the Imperial banner on the opposite wall cast in light and shadow. The Tevas-kaar stared up towards the holocomm, his stance shifting slightly, as if suddenly anticipating a new threat. Vorru turned to look—

The tip of a blue lightsaber burst through the wall of the apartment and into the holocomm, sending a shower of sparks through the room and plunging the third floor into total darkness.


	19. Chapter Eighteen

Coruscant had not always been named Coruscant. Sometime in the distant past, so far distant that even how long it had been was forgotten to all but a handful of historians, the planet had a different name. Mara didn't know what its name had been. Perhaps no one did.

But she had grown up here—at least, for all the years she could remember clearly. She had stood on this very rooftop more than once, contemplating tasks, assignments, dangers, foes. Then the planet had been simply Imperial Center. She had known the planet's previous name was Coruscant but never stopped to reflect on the name. Not until she had returned here, fresh out of a brief dip in a bacta tank, the Emperor's last command banished from her mind for good, had she ever stopped to _look_.

Coruscant glittered. The buildings stretched skyward, reinforced by repulsorlifts that allowed them to reach far higher than they would have naturally. Windows flickered as airspeeders and spaceships soared lazily through the urban canyons. The planet's sun was nearly set, casting an orangish-reddish glow that sparkled and shaded the buildings alike. Above the horizon she saw the planet's semi-spacebound Skyhooks, massive stations tethered to the planet's surface in geosynchronous orbits, gleaming like rubies. Below her she could see Senate Hill, the dome of the old Senate building cast in a reflected glow. Palpatine's placement of the Imperial Palace had ensured that the Senate dome was always cast in shadow when the sun rose, and always cast in reddish, somber light when the sun set again. Palpatine had always liked to gloat.

She watched as the red faded into black, the dome now cast in shadow rather than its usual gleaming white. Of all the planets in the galaxy, few had prospered as much as Coruscant had under the empire. Palpatine had insisted on drawing all the power and wealth within his grasp he could and destroying the rest and under his rule Coruscant had become a black hole for the galaxy's rich and powerful. All came. Few escaped—until Isard had deliberately sacrificed the planet in a gambit to destroy the nascent New Republic. Now, with Thrawn dead and the New Republic firmly entrenched both on Coruscant and in the galaxy, the gravity of the old Imperial Center began once more to draw wealth and power into its hungry maw.

It was that or starve.

Mara sighed as that thought finished ricocheting around her brain. The image was hardly conducive to finding inner peace. But few of her thoughts had been the last few days.

She leaned on the chest-high wrought stone railing at the edge of the palace roof, wondering what she was doing here. Her Smugglers' Alliance office in the Imperial Palace—her _office!_ —still felt wrong, like a bizarre reflection of reality. The first week she spent in it had been a dreamlike haze, walking the hallways that had raised her, shaped her, built her, and housed her; had taken the child that Palpatine—or his agents ( _perhaps even Vader_ , her lightsaber whispered to her)—had found and shaped her into the Emperor's Hand, two words which could only be spoken with capitalization and dread.

One thing that hadn't changed was the respect. It was remarkable, really, how _little_ had changed in how people treated her in the Palace. Her history was no secret, not anymore, certainly not to the people who were high enough placed in the New Republic government to work in the Imperial Palace. Everyone who approached her did so with a wariness that bespoke both fear and awe. When she had been the Emperor's Hand it had annoyed her greatly when people like Isard had dared treat her otherwise. Now it just reinforced that she did not belong here. The palace no longer felt like home but more like the prison it had, in hindsight, always truly been.

What was it, she wondered, that had brought the sense of inner peace she had felt the last time she stood on this roof, the last time she had leaned against this stone railing? Why had then been soothing, reassuring, a glimpse into her future and this time it was instead into her past _?_

She didn't know. And the quickening of her heartbeat when she tried said she wasn't ready to think about it just yet.

Twenty meters behind her, the door out onto the roof opened. She stretched out to the Force, her brow furrowing. Her first thought was of Skywalker, but the Jedi wasn't on Coruscant. The presence she felt was vaguely familiar, but not familiar enough to instantly recognize.

"Palace Security said I could find you here," a brisk voice that would have sounded perfectly at home in the Imperial Palace when Coruscant had been Imperial Center said. She turned towards it, keeping her hand carefully away from the lightsaber on her belt. The man had longish reddish blond hair that covered his ears and a neatly trimmed beard. Both were starting to go white—whiter than they had been the last time she had seen the man. Of course, then she'd had a blaster against his jaw and he'd been wearing sleepwear—not a General's uniform.

"General Madine," Mara said in surprise. The two had encountered one another on Kintoni about five years before, while Mara had still been flitting from system to system to evade Ysanne Isard's intelligence operatives. She had taken the opportunity to warp up old business. The encounter had ended amicably enough, although not before he had tried to kill her with her own lightsaber. "This is a surprise."

"I can assure you, Miss Jade," he replied, his intonation carrying the barest hint of amusement, "it is not as much of a surprise as our last meeting." He approached and his bearing had none of the expected wariness. Instead he held out his hand. "Let me formally introduce myself, since we weren't the last time. I'm Crix Madine." He ducked his head in a nod as he waited for her to take his proffered hand. "Thank you for your help on Kintoni, by the way."

Mara paused for a moment, evaluating the man, what she remembered of his record, and his sense in the Force before she took his hand. She didn't bother to return the introduction. "I take it you were satisfied with your share of Governor Barkale's ill-gotten gains," she said.

"It covered the New Republic's expenses for the better part of a year," Madine replied as he released his grip on her hand. To her surprise he stepped past her to the stone railing, looking out over the view. "I haven't come up here before," he commented, watching the view. It didn't seem to offer him any more inner peace than it was currently offering her.

Mara watched him cautiously. Madine wasn't acting like an enemy, but there were only so many reasons for him to have approached her like this—for him to have deliberately sought her out. Leia Organa Solo had assured Mara and Karrde that there would be no punishment meted out for her time as Emperor's hand—Leia's voice had been so soft, so _understanding_ , so forgiving in that meeting that it had only added to Mara's anxiety—but Leia was not the New Republic's Empress and her word was hardly law.

"I did my research after our encounter," Madine said. "I wasn't sure who you were at first. Imperial Intelligence was my first guess, but you didn't seem like one of Isard's. The way you let me go and let us have Barkale's stash told me you weren't ISB. The only useful hint was—"

"The lightsaber," Mara finished for him.

"That's right. Only a handful of Imperial Agents carried lightsabers. So, I started collecting intelligence reports and I asked General Cracken to send me all the reports he had. Put together a little dossier on a mysterious woman who went by the title Emperor's Hand." He rested both his hands on the rail and Mara could see in her peripheral vision that his belt had a blaster holster. She could also see that it was empty. "The dossier was incomplete, of course."

"Of course," Mara echoed stiffly.

"I gave it back to Cracken when the word started going around that we had the Emperor's Hand in custody, and he quietly passed it around the Provisional Council members when you escaped again." Madine paused, letting the cool Coruscant breeze flow around them both. "I wasn't surprised when you came back with Jedi Skywalker as a confirmed ally."

Mara was abruptly tired of the conversation. "Because Skywalker has a history of turning foes into friends? Or because I once held a blaster to your head and didn't pull the trigger?"

Madine's head turned towards her, seemingly not put off by her scowl. "Because over and over again your record was of someone who punished the guilty and protected the innocent. Poln, Kintoni, Qiaxx, Ghel Daneth, Neftali… every mission was a display of careful precision. And yes, because if you'd really been an enemy of the New Republic you would never have let me live on Kintoni."

Mara firmed her lips together and locked her gaze on the glittering skyline. _I just didn't want to run from the Rebellion and Isard at the same time,_ she thought. "What do you want, Madine?"

"You know Governor Ferrouz said something else in his report," Madine's voice was soft, understanding – he sounded like Leia, and she abruptly _knew_ that Leia had sent him, or at least discussed this meeting with him before he'd deigned to come up here, and she felt a burst of indignation that she had to be _handled_ like some kind of _asset_ — "He said you brought Imperial Justice."

Mara's anger flamed away into surprise. "What?"

"Imperial Justice," Madine repeated, and she could hear the capitalization for each of the two words… but there wasn't any dread. "I believed in it too," he said after the words had fully diffused into her thoughts, and this time there was no mistaking the compassion in his voice. "During the Clone Wars the Old Republic had fallen apart, gone to chaos, and service in the Imperial Army, service to the new Empire was how I could make a difference." She could hear the darkness of the memory, of gleaming past purpose darkened by the shadow of experience. "I could make a difference," he repeated. "But then Dentaal, and I finally saw Palpatine's Empire for what it was." He looked down. "I remember what that was like. Twenty years of loyal service and I had been the enemy all along."

Mara's anger flamed back into existence as quickly as it had fled. "And you think that's what I'm feeling now, is it? Guilt?"

Madine shrugged. "Of course. But dealing with guilt is easy—it drives us to act. The hard part was realizing that I never really knew who I was, and that if I didn't know who I was before then how can I know who I am now?"

Mara scowled at him and his presumptions. She especially scowled at how close he was hitting home. "I see your lips moving but I'm hearing Organa Solo's voice." She crossed her arms across her chest and glared at him. " _She_ put you up to this."

"Not exactly," Madine demurred. "We discussed it but I would have come even if we hadn't. You made an impression on Kintoni and I thought it was important that we talk, after what happened on Wayland." He gave her a small but genuine smile and Mara got the impression that Madine wasn't a man who smiled very often—it looked uncomfortable, almost alien on his face. "I just wanted to tell you that if you ever wanted to talk about it, I know a lot of ex-Imperial defectors who have faced exactly this, and so does General Skywalker. We'd all be happy to talk about it, if you ever want to."

She could stay angry—with Leia, with Madine. Or get angry with Luke, because she was sure this was all actually _his_ fault—he had probably asked Leia to look after her while he was away. She'd just have to remind him that she didn't need _looking after_ when he and Karrde got back from Ukio. But she found that her anger was hard to sustain. "Fine," she said sourly. "Was that all, or were you also going to try to recruit me for some mission just _vital_ for galactic security?" She narrowed her green eyes at him, and if they'd been blasters his impeccable uniform would have had two smoking craters in it.

"Not this time," Madine said. He shrugged one shoulder. "But if something comes up, I'll be sure to ask. Or send Karrde a request for your services."

"I don't come cheap," she retorted, as if to remind him that she hadn't gone and done anything stupid like sign up for the New Republic Defense Force.

"Nothing Talon Karrde provides does," Madine replied dryly. He pushed off the stone railing and straightened his uniform. "Well, I've said what I came to say. I'm sure you can find me if you want to continue this conversation." He nodded and headed back towards the door.

She heard him turn back briefly to look at her, but she was gazing out over Coruscant again.

Mara sighed and leaned forward, her chin lowering toward her chest as she closed her eyes. Her anger—which had been mostly for show anyway—passed back into an ache of loss and loneliness and uncertainty. She should have stayed with Talon on the _Wild Karrde_ , she thought. At least there she had routines and a sense of what normal meant. She knew who she was, the role she was supposed to play. Here she was still trying to figure it all out, figure _herself_ out, and with Skywalker gone the closest thing she'd had to constancy was missing.

But at the same time, talking with Madine had helped, which surprised her. And as she opened her eyes back up and peered out over the cityscape, watching all the people go about their evening business, she found a bit of the inner peace that she'd found the last time she stood up here. And pride.

 _Imperial Justice_.

"Madine?" she called.

"Yes, Miss Jade?" he asked, his voice distant.

She breathed in the Coruscant night air and wondered if she'd ever be free of the weight Palpatine had laid on her shoulders. "There's a service elevator down the hall on the left. It'll return you to the ground floor from here much faster. The passcode is 5997." She waited another two seconds, until she heard the door open, and then called out again. "If you want, General, I'm free for lunch tomorrow."

He turned back, regarding her curiously.

His regard made her self-conscious. "You're right. I need to talk about it and … no one understands."

He nodded. "Certainly. I'll make the time. See you tomorrow." There was the opening and then the closing of the door, and he was gone. She sat and watched the city, alone again.

* * *

The longer Mara spent working on the shipping part of the Smugglers' Alliance's responsibilities, the more she hated the liaison job. Now that the business relationship between the New Republic and the Smugglers' Alliance was formal, the list of requests for shipping had started to grow. And grow. And grow.

 _No wonder the New Republic was so desperate to bring in independents,_ Mara thought, astonished at the sheer volume of requests. _They are starving for shipping. Even with the Smugglers' Alliance and all the independent shipping cartels we represent, we still don't have enough for all this._

She still didn't have a droid to help her manage, but Ghent's computer program did almost all the work for her. It automatically took requests, pinged the HoloNet for available ships, and then sent out possible shipping assignments. The ships then took the assignments they wanted, sent their confirmation back through the HoloNet, and the database updated which jobs were available. Much of it was automated, so Mara found herself in the utterly dismal position of being _customer service._

Earlier that morning she'd met with the Senator from Exodeen and personally assured him that their 'vital' shipment of Juju powder had already been picked up and was on its way. There was a rather lengthy list of dignitaries all with their pet project or concern, all who insisted on speaking personally to the Liaison from the Smugglers' Alliance.

 _This isn't going to work out,_ she realized. Karrde and Leia and Skywalker had talked her into taking this position because she had a degree of trust from both the New Republic and the Fringe; she had one foot in both worlds, so to speak. She took it because they had all been right. But she was _already_ bored. Mara, even more than most smugglers, was used to a life of action and adventure and challenge, and she felt _woefully_ suited for the life of a bureaucrat. In a few months they'd have a full staff on duty, with droids and personnel hired that would take the onus off her to do all the day-to-day communication herself; she hoped that would make it less frustrating.

There was nothing to do but do it for now, and talk to Karrde when he got back. She'd made a commitment, and she intended to keep that commitment. Maybe once the _bureaucracy_ (her mind shied away from even the word) was established, she could focus on the big picture organizational practices and diplomatic responsibilities of the role. That might work, although diplomat sounded only marginally better than bureaucrat. And that was assuming she didn't get frustrated and blast someone for being an idiot.

Her terminal beeped and she brought up the message, which was, like the previous two from the same sender, labeled _urgent_. She read it, growled with irritation, and shut down her terminal. Exodeen didn't need Juju powder badly enough to warrant the Ambassador requesting _three_ personal meetings with her in three days! She fervently regretted that Karrde had not yet found her a reliable office droid.

Mara practically stormed out of her office, wishing that Luke was still on Coruscant. She missed having the Jedi around to practice with; what she needed was a good spar. But that required a quality opponent and with the Jedi gone she was unlikely to find one.

The aircar ride to Woonseer's Cafe was short, but helped her relax a bit as the familiar skyscape whizzed by her but really, it was the distance. The distance between her, the office, and the bland aura of a stolid _respectability_. Which was, she thought as she stepped onto the tastefully-appointed docking pad, why she'd decided on Woonseer's. The maitre'd knew better than to attempt smalltalk, given her expression, and ushered her to her usual, secluded table with a view of the Senate building, and the Palace looming beyond.

She recognized Madine even before he rounded the ornamental plants hiding her from sight. He had the unmistakable step of a stormtrooper, one that echoed of the teachers Palpatine had brought in for her when she was young. Mara moved her menu down slightly from her eyeline and slightly arched an eyebrow.

"Miss Jade," Madine greeted her.

"General Madine," she replied with a nod in the direction of the empty chair. "Won't you join me?"

He sat, looking around him with a tired expression.

"Long day?"

He took a look at the menu, then put it back down. "It's been a long time since I was here," he said, and his voice was as tired as his face. Through the Force, she could sense an old, painful ache. "I hadn't realized they renamed Doriana Tower when I got your lunch invitation, or I'd have requested we meet somewhere else."

Mara frowned. "We could go elsewhere, if you would prefer?"

Madine shook his head. "Oh, no. It's fine. It's just that I haven't been here since before I defected." He sat, looking at the menu again. "I had a fiancée. A life even, before." Madine explained without looking up. "Karreio. She was a member of the Imperial aristocracy who saw something in a rough-edged trooper that I hadn't seen in myself. She introduced me to this place. A secret hideaway, in the heart of the Palace District. Privacy in public."

That had always been what Mara used it for, too, when she'd been pretending to be a member of that aristocracy. Of all her personas, Countess Claria had been most comfortable cycling through those rarefied circles, but Mara had always found that particular persona tiring.

"I left her behind when I defected," Madine continued. "She was still a true believer, so I never could tell her about the things I did. The things they asked me to do. Perhaps I should have." He glanced over the menu at her, taking a sip of his water before putting the tall glass back down. He looked back at the menu. "She died during the invasion of Coruscant."

"I'm sorry."

"Me too," Madine sighed. "I never looked up how she died, if any of her family survived. This war, brought about by the need of the powerful to have still more power… it killed her, surely as it killed everyone on Alderaan, but living in that system, even at the middle rank, we were both a party to evil, and we incurred a debt. Eventually, that debt comes due. Perhaps a blaster bolt, perhaps a trial, perhaps a grey existence on the Fringe."

Mara frowned.

"I suppose that's as good a transition to the reason we're meeting as any," Madine said wryly. The waiter came over and the conversation paused as they ordered.

"The Imperial guilt conversation, you mean?" she asked, resting her hands on the table. She sighed and turned to look out the window. The external towers of the Imperial Palace loomed, the old gunnery platforms visible and still manned, but now by Republic soldiers instead of Imperials. The skyline of Coruscant was beyond, with a long near-wall of towers glittering in the afternoon sun. Beyond that were the Manarai Mountains, steeped in white and orange as the sun hovered above. "I think you said all you intended to say when we spoke on the roof."

"But you didn't say very much at all."

She sighed and turned back away from the view, her attention returning to Madine. "Palpatine groomed me from childhood to be his agent. He molded me, my strengths and weaknesses, my abilities, my mindset. He turned me into … a living testament to his cleverness and his power." She scowled. "I was a _trophy_ as much as I was an asset." She shook her head. "You know all that already. So do I. What else is there to say?"

"Maybe nothing. Maybe a lot," Madine replied. "We—former Imperials, I mean—all live with a great deal of guilt. We all have a different reason for not acting sooner than we did. Sometimes, often, it was fear; resistance against the Empire from the ranks is dangerous, what with ISB always on the lookout for the enemy within. Sometimes it was because we didn't see. Most of the time though, it was because we chose to look away." He frowned. "That's for those of us who had consciences, though. Many in the Empire weren't conflicted at all, they didn't care as long as it brought them wealth or power."

Mara was quiet, her gaze turning back to the mountains. She found herself wishing Luke was here instead, but she felt certain there were things that Luke, with his farmboy innocence and endless optimism, should never have to face. Madine would understand. "He could have warped me fully," she said quietly. "Could have broken me to his will, turned me completely into a puppet. He didn't. I don't know why he didn't… I don't know why he left me…" she shrugged helplessly, groping for the right word and not finding it. _Innocent_ was certainly not accurate.

"Why do you think?"

Mara shook her head. "The only thing I can think of was I served his purposes better as I was. That because I _believed_ in Imperial Justice, he could use me as his tool to convince everyone else that it actually _existed_."

Madine surprised her with a humorless laugh. Her gaze darted to him, expression darkening. "What?" she asked, tone dangerous.

"Miss Jade, we _all_ believed in Imperial Justice. At first. Everyone told us it was real, that the Empire was a force for good, for order, that the old Republic had been an unstable relic. That last part might even have been true. But we _all_ believed that the Empire was a force for good, outside of the darkest souls in ISB. Even Isard believed in the Empire, I think." He leaned forward. "The difference is how far could you push us before we broke and stopped believing. Some never did. Men like Rogriss and Pellaeon, they _still_ believe. For me," he sighed, looking weary, "for me, it took being ordered to kill every living being on Dentaal. It took me a _long_ time to break, because I believed."

"He never gave me orders like that one," Mara whispered.

"No," Madine agreed darkly. "He saved them for those of us he'd already pushed to the brink and had nonetheless remained loyal."

"But why not?" Mara demanded. "I would've followed those orders. I would—"

"Would you?" Madine interrupted her sharply. "Would you have followed those orders, Miss Jade?"

She swallowed hard. _No,_ she thought, and knew in her gut that it was true. If Palpatine had broken her more, warped her, molded her… but the Emperor's Hand had believed in Imperial Justice, believed in it more than anything else in the galaxy, upheld and fought for it. The Emperor's Hand had detested Grand Moff Tarkin for what had happened to Alderaan, because it had been the antithesis of the Imperial Justice she had believed in. The Emperor's Hand had always believed the Empire and its Emperor were _better_ than that.

Because Palpatine had let her believe it.

"That's why he didn't give them to you," Madine said, almost kindly. "Because he knew you wouldn't follow them."

Mara wasn't sure if that made her feel better or worse. She wasn't sure how that made her feel. Good? Bad? Prideful? Ashamed? Yes, there was a fair bit of shame in that mix.

"One thing I have learned, something I tell all of us, Miss Jade," Madine said quietly, "is that ultimately, the most important thing is how we move forward. Some of us…" he shook his head, "some of us, it doesn't matter how much good we do, we'll always be damned for the evil we failed to stop. We will spend the rest of our lives paying back our debts, and what matters is that our payment has meaning to the living people we help in the present."

 _The living people we help in the present_.

She'd never been ordered to destroy a world. Never been ordered to murder an innocent—at least, someone she had been told was an innocent. But it almost didn't matter, she thought. Palpatine could have made her do those things. She _would_ have done them, all he had to do was twist her mind a little more… and the knowledge that he could have made her do them, but _didn't_ , somehow made her feel even more guilty. Why spare her what he inflicted on others?

And then, of all things, she thought about Tatooine, the Tuskens, the venality of Mos Eisley and the Hutts, and all the hard choices Luke had doubtless grown up with, followed by the subsequent challenges of his life. He had remained a beacon of light through it all.

She had only just realized what she had thought, started to interrogate it, when her train of thought was interrupted by a familiar beeping, one that sent shivers down her spine and made her instinctively inhale. She froze, anticipating a mental touch, a knife of telepathy pushing into her mind—but no. Palpatine was dead. She forced the spasm of dread back, then patted herself down, looking for the source of the beeping.

Mara pulled the wristcom she had found on _L6000-H-82688_ out of her pocket. She'd entirely forgotten about it since she and Skywalker had found her old ship, and she stared at it in confusion and mounting alarm.

"What is it?" asked Madine.

She glanced up at him, saw his own confused and mildly alarmed expression, and shook her head. "I'm not sure," she said, fumbling with the wristcom. She'd always worn one on Coruscant, at least when she was younger; the device had been one of Palpatine's less invasive forms of communication, and a way for her to communicate with her myriad handlers (when she had still needed handlers). She pressed on it, following the alert to a more detailed explanation of its cause—

"Miss Jade?"

Her frown deepened. "I found this in my old possessions," she said without looking at him. "It's something Palpatine used to communicate with me. I'm… not sure why I took it." She scowled at the device. _Damn Skywalker and his Force intuitions_.

Madine had the grace not to press, perhaps recognizing a Force thing when he saw it. "Why is it beeping?"

"It says one of my old safehouses—I had about a dozen of them, scattered all over the planet in areas I operated in when I was younger, while I was still in training—has been compromised." She glanced up at him, saw his eyebrows lift with curiosity. "The one in Argosy District. Apparently someone is trying to breach the main door… and just succeeded." She frowned, thinking back and trying to remember everything she could about the Argosy safehouse. "I operated in Argosy District about fifteen years ago," she mused, "there wasn't much at the safehouse, but I have reason to believe Isard co-opted all my old facilities after Palpatine's death."

"Fifteen years? How old were you?"

Mara shrugged, pressing the wristcom and trying to elicit more information. "I'm not sure. Ten or eleven standard," she replied distractedly. "I'm going to go check this out," she continued as she moved her lightsaber from its concealment in her clutch to its more convenient location on her combat belt. "I doubt it's a coincidence that I explore my old facility here in the palace, and a week later someone breaks into another of my old facilities on the other side of the planet." She stood. She'd need to go back to the office first; her primary blaster was there, and her extra power packs. It was too bulky to wear easily concealed, but it wasn't wise to go into a potential fight without it. Her holdout was already in her sleeve. "Shavit, I need to call Cracken too," she cursed, annoyed, and reached for her comlink.

"I'll come with you," Madine volunteered. "If it is related to Isard, you might need backup."

She frowned at him. "General Madine, I work very well alone," she said. "I don't want to have to protect you while I investigate—"

Madine held up at hand, his gaze hardening. "Miss Jade," he said stiffly, "I am not some desk jockey. I was an Imperial Storm Commando. I was _the_ Imperial Storm Commando. I'm probably one of the few members of the New Republic military who can rival yourself in terms of field experience." He smiled thinly. "And, most importantly, Mon Mothma hasn't allowed me to go on a field mission in years. I'm craving a chance to stretch my legs, and this sounds like fun." He nodded at her. "You call Airen and let him know where we're going. I'll arrange transport to Argosy District; I guarantee I can get us there faster than you can."

There didn't seem to be much room for argument. Besides, he was probably right.

And it _did_ sound like fun.

* * *

Ultimately she hadn't needed to go back to her office for her blaster. The transport Madine commandeered was small, fast, and equipped with enough commando gear to storm Coruscant all over again. Mara smiled, remembering the best Stormtrooper units that had served with her. That Madine reminded her of them shouldn't surprise her given Madine's history, she thought as she finished equipping herself, pulling on a lightweight blaster-resistant vest. _I should've asked Cracken if I could recover my old gear_ , she thought with a frown. _It was all much more expensive than this. Nothing but the best for the Emperor's Hand._

Still, the equipment Madine provided was better than mere trooper grade, and it was much better than harsh language. She checked her borrowed blaster pistol and her holdout, plus the vibroblades at the small of her back and the lightsaber secured to her belt. It was nice to be well-armed, but the whole arsenal didn't mean much until she knew what she and Madine might be facing. Weapons were tools, and it was always important to have the right tool for any job.

Madine had offered to call up a commando unit, but it would have delayed them by half an hour and Mara thought that too long to wait, so they would be coming along behind as reinforcements. In the meantime, Mara quickly briefed Madine on the facility as the transport finished its low-orbit hop.

"It's located in the mid-levels of a nondescript apartment building," she explained. "Three floors, taking up what appears on maps of the building as a condo unit and empty space, close to one of the building's landing pads. On the inside it's essentially a three story loft. The first floor is a living space; refresher, bedroom, kitchenette. The second floor, at least while I was using it, was the primary workspace, with computer access to the planetary intelligence network and the Imperial palace. The third floor had a holocom, which I could use to confer with the Emp—" she wrinkled her nose with irritation "—with Palpatine, without needing to return to the palace."

Madine nodded. "And the defenses?"

Mara shook her head. "Not much. Its primary defense was anonymity. When I used it, I had a Kaythree protocol droid, which interfaced with the computer network, and two Imperial officers; one was a tutor, the other was a computer expert, who served as my handlers. This was before I started operating independently. The safehouse was designed to be abandoned if found, and had one escape route on each floor. We can use them to enter as well, although I'll have to cut through the walls."

"A tutor?"

She thought back, remembering the two men. Her teacher had been rather elderly even back then, but she remembered him as an excellent teacher with just the right amount of patience for someone as young as she had been. The other man had been one of the many faceless Imperial officers who had shuffled in and out of her life without leaving any impression at all, as replaceable as spare parts for her blaster. "General Alsdoxe," she said, his name coming to her in a moment of remembrance. "He didn't teach me for very long. Two, three months. I assume he had to get back to his normal duties."

"Alsdoxe?" Madine said in surprise. "Dertimo Alsdoxe?"

She shrugged. "I don't know, I never knew his first name. I'm pretty sure he was on leave from Carida when he was teaching me, though. Palpatine mentioned that."

Madine hummed thoughtfully as he tugged his own protective gear on, then checked and double-checked his blaster. Unlike Mara, who was content with her pistol and her holdout, he had shrugged on a black New Republic shock trooper combat plastron and bore a customized E-11 with a pair of extra powerpacks in long, slim pockets on his back. "General Dertimo Alsdoxe was a veteran of the Clone Wars," Madine said, "and was one of the better trooper instructors at Carida. I think he taught there for thirty years, going back to pre-Imperial days." He chuckled. "I haven't thought about him in years, but he was one of my instructors too, although about a generation before he was yours, and for a command-level course. I assume he's retired by now, but he may actually still teach at Carida. He transferred to instruction young; a lot of the existing army back then was displaced when the Republic introduced clones to its fighting force."

That was curious. Mara wondered if he'd remember her. Almost certainly, she thought; she doubted General Alsdoxe had often been assigned to teach preteens Stormtrooper commando tactics. "How long until we reach Argosy District?"

The transport had made an orbital hop; darting up out of atmosphere so it could use its engines at full burn around the planet, before dipping back down into the atmosphere. Madine had been right about being able to get her here faster than she could herself; there was no way Mara would have gotten clearance to perform the maneuver in a ship of her own, even if she'd had one. She really needed to replace the Z-95 she'd lost at the Katana battle.

"Just a few minutes. I'll have an airspeeder waiting for us at the docking bay, and from there we can get to your safehouse in maybe ten minutes; more if we hurry. I assume you'll want to be circumspect, though?"

She nodded. "Best not to give whoever has breached the safehouse warning. I doubt they'll know we're coming."

Madine nodded again. "Acknowledged." He strapped the rifle to his back, adjusting his Republic-issue armor to make sure he was well protected, and then settled in to wait.

It was an odd sensation. It had been a long time since Mara had sat in a commando transport headed into a mission with an Imperial officer or Stormtrooper contingent at her side. Madine's presence reminded her of those days; steady, quiet, speaking only what needed to be said (at least now that they weren't discussing her Imperial past). It was like any dozen missions she'd done with some faceless Imperial officer, all trained and disciplined the same, all obedient and patient.

For a moment, she felt like she was the Emperor's Hand again. The old routine and habits settled around her easily, were welcoming and familiar, bespeaking stability and normality and damned if she didn't crave them sometimes.

As they came down the transport's landing ramp, waiting for them was an airspeeder with a protocol droid sitting in the pilot's seat. Mara excused him and took the seat herself; Madine hopped in the passenger side. It was a decent enough vehicle, and Mara kicked it into gear and entered the thinning lines of nighttime traffic. She didn't rush, but she did take the most expeditious route.

Her mission in Argosy District had been one of her first. It hadn't been particularly difficult; surveillance of a Black Sun meeting, attended by some of the lesser Vigos at the time. The details were blurred in her memory, but she remembered that the exercise had been about stealth, infiltration, and exfiltration. She also remembered that her lack of size had been both an advantage and a disadvantage, making tasks that required strength more difficult but tasks that required squeezing through tight spaces a breeze. Alsdoxe had been patient and kind, which was more than she could say about a lot of her tutors at that age.

She brought the airspeeder down into the landing pad, trying to fly casually. The vehicle's repulsors went silent as she put it into park, then she hopped out of the car, glancing around and hoping that no one would be there to see them approach. She wasn't trying to hide the blaster in her belt holster, and Madine's E-11 was rather prominent as he unstrapped it and carried it in a Stormtrooper's professional two-handed grip.

Luckily, she still remembered where the secret door on the third floor was. It exited directly onto the landing pad, although there was no sign of its presence from the pad. She stepped over to the wall, reaching out with the Force as she ran her hands over the wall, looking for the hidden seams.

_There._

"Stand back," she said to Madine, gripping her lightsaber and pulling it off her belt. She thumbed the weapon on with its familiar _snap-hiss_ , tracing the blade gently along the hidden seam, careful not to punch it through the wall just yet as she skimmed with the tip of the blade.

She could feel Madine watching her, watching their surroundings. His awareness was keen, nervousness suppressed under a professional's intent.

Mara ignored him. The pressure of the Force grew in her mind as she reached out into the space beyond—and then she felt it. A presence in the Force, a powerful one. One skilled and perceptive and one who had just become as aware of _her_ as she was aware of _them._

The Force also told her something else—that she had reached both the place and the moment to strike. With Skywalker's persistent lessons to let the Force guide her echoing in her head, lessons that said she needed to let the Force show her what she needed to do when she needed to do it, she placed both hands on her lightsaber and thrust the blade through the wall to the hilt.


	20. Chapter Nineteen

Vorru jerked back in surprise as Eliezer cursed. “I just lost the connection to the HoloNet!” the Drall exclaimed, his beady eyes searching out the holocomm on the floor above. He started in his chair as he saw what Vorru and the Tevas-kaar had already seen: the blue lightsaber now carving down through the wall one floor above. “Oh, sithspit,” the Drall breathed in horror. 

The Tevas-kaar was the least surprised. His body position shifted and he drew his lightsaber, igniting the blue-white blade with a _snap-hiss._ “Get behind me,” he said, his resonant voice echoing under the mask he wore. 

Eliezer was still scrabbling out of his chair while also trying to do something on the terminal when a foot kicked in a door that had been camouflaged into the wall, cut open by the lightsaber. The hidden door slammed against the interior wall with a horrendous, echoing bang. For a moment all was silent, and then a flicker of motion on the floor above drew Vorru’s attention. He squinted, trying to see in the dark, and stepped back involuntarily as the slim, feminine figure rose from the floor, a blue blade extending from the lightsaber hilt held securely in her hand, the hum of the weapon filling the silence of the room. 

He’d snapped off a shot before he’d even realized he had, survival instinct and fear both screaming at him to _strike first_. It was a mistake. The woman’s lightsaber caught the blaster bolt with an economical movement, tilting to the side to intercept it. The bolt ricocheted back towards them, blowing a hole in the computer terminal just inches above Eliezer’s head. Sparks and flame ignited and Eliezer’s gasp of agony and frantic matting at his fur told Vorru that firing a second time would be another mistake. 

“Prepare for evacuation,” the Tevas-kaar said firmly, one of his hands pulling the flailing Eliezer behind him, then pushing both Eliezer and Vorru towards the spiral stairs down to the first floor of the safehouse, never taking his eyes off the woman. 

Vorru got his first good look at her and had no idea who she was. She had striking red-gold hair—a relative rarity, but hardly distinguishing—and youth. One of Isard’s, Vorru guessed, although the idea of Isard training a Force adept was almost too ridiculous to seriously contemplate. But who she was and how she’d come to be there were questions for later. Eliezer had gotten at least some of the funds in Isard’s black account, and even a fraction of the credits would be more than enough to serve his immediate needs, which meant now they just had to _survive_. 

_Hurry, Roeder,_ he thought as the woman stalked down the spiral staircase after them, her lightsaber held in a comfortable, confident defensive grip. His only reassurance was that the Tevas-kaar looked equally confident. _Who knows, Fliry,_ he thought almost casually. _Maybe you’ll finally find out if that armor of his is purely for show or actually serves a purpose._

* * *

Mara kicked through the emergency exit she’d carved free with her lightsaber, hearing the heavy metal slam into the wall on the inside, the bang sending trembles through the building. She held up a hand to Madine, telling him to wait, paused two seconds, and then rolled into the room, confident she’d avoid any blaster fire. She came up in a crouch, rising as she re-ignited her lightsaber, and it was then she heard the echoing hum of the equally blue blade one level down. 

There were three people down there. The sight of a Drall was surprising; the small alien was clacking at a computer terminal with a distracted expression. Standing behind the Drall there was an older human holding a blaster in his hand; he actually looked familiar, though she couldn’t immediately place him. The barrel of his weapon was snapping up towards her and snarled, sending a bolt zinging towards her. She casually deflected it back, sending it through the computer terminal’s interface.

Her focus was on the third figure. He was very tall and clearly powerfully built, wearing bronze armor that covered him from head to toe. It was a light armor, not appearing particularly protective, but appearances weren’t always indicative of usefulness. Most distinctive was the white mask, carved to give a furred appearance, and the calm brown eyes that gazed through that mask at her. He held a lightsaber, blue blade looking quite like her own, comfortably in his hand. 

Skywalker had told her he thought it was important that they practice lightsaber sparring, but hadn’t been sure why. She was pretty sure that she now knew why. 

She stepped onto the staircase, not saying anything, her gaze on the tall figure. He ushered his two companions behind him—the one armed with the blaster didn’t try shooting her again—and hurried them down the spiral stairs towards the first floor. Beyond the spiral staircase, framing his back, was an enormous Imperial emblem, which hung three-stories high along the external wall. 

Dozens of times Mara had stalked after her prey. All those corrupt governors and administrators, crooked nobles… She had been the Emperor’s Hand, and when she approached, her slow and steady and purposeful step had carried justice closer. Some had bartered, others begged; justified or cowered. Occasionally—rarely—they had even fought. They had known, all of them, that the game was up. But she was not the Emperor’s Hand anymore, and none of her previous targets had ever held a lightsaber in his hand. 

“New Republic armed forces!” she heard General Madine yell from the floor above as he took up a sheltered position at the top of the stairs. “Throw down your weapons!”

The armored man didn’t seem inclined to obey; the other two figures continued to hurry down the stairs. Madine took a shot at them, the stun blast charring the Imperial iconography behind them. They hit the floor, ducking behind a heavy table; the older, armed man fired back blindly, sending two shots into the ceiling. Dust glittered in the air as it descended from the damage done by his wayward fire. 

Mara never even noticed. Her focus had narrowed to the Force adept before her; as blaster fire continued between Madine and his two elderly foes, she gazed solely at the very tall man before her. “I don’t suppose you’d be willing to surrender peaceably,” she asked sarcastically. 

Unsurprisingly, the tall man didn’t reply, but she could feel a sort of grim, sympathetic amusement hovering between them. 

He didn’t feel like Vader or Palpatine had; there was no persistent sense of menace, no suffusive chill. But neither did the other man have Skywalker’s calming presence, his warmth or light, purity tempered by pain and experience. Skywalker was the child of Tatooine moisture farmers at heart, one who had never stopped dreaming even after all the pain and uncertainty; one who’d had the temerity to hope and dream even more because of it. 

The man who stood before her was no Skywalker. She wasn’t sure what he was. 

But there was no time for her to ruminate. Harsh tongues of blaster fire licked between their companions, and the bronze figure’s lightsaber reached out and deflected one of Madine’s bolts back towards him, sending the General dodging to the floor with a grunt. Mara stepped forward and the blue-white blade flicked towards her, humming with purpose. She caught the blade with her own, deflecting it away, shifting her footwork to keep his attention on her and away from Madine. 

They faced each other, twinned blue lightsabers humming, gleaming in the dark as the Imperial crest hung from the ceiling beyond them. The Force sang, empowering and encouraging, and warning her that time—for whatever reason—was not on her side. She struck. 

Their lightsabers buzzed and hummed, blue-white blade clashing with blue-white blade. He was taller than she was, and stronger, and he was well aware of both facts, his blows endowed with more pure power than she could hope to produce. But she was faster, more nimble, and power was wasted (and indeed, could be dangerous to the wielder) if it did not find a target. 

Against Skywalker, when they had sparred, she had been aggressive almost to the point of recklessness, taking advantage of her physical conditioning to put him under siege. But Skywalker had merely deflected her advances and snuck in occasional blows, light taps really. They had all healed by the next day, but if they’d been using lightsabers she would’ve lost a limb. That lesson firmly learned, she now fought more like Skywalker; reserved, focusing on her positioning, making sure she was aware of not just where she was standing but of where she would be standing next. 

He came at her with a potent downward slash; she flowed backwards, shifting her weight as she dodged the blow and sent her lightsaber clashing against his. His strength prevented her from batting his blade aside for a quick lunge, and their blades screeched as they ground against one another, his forcing her back. She spun away, feet moving with a dancer’s grace.

Above them, Madine was back on his feet, his custom blaster spitting fire at the other two intruders. The Imperial banner standing on the three-story wall had caught fire in two places, flames licking dangerously upwards, curling the hard edges of the Imperial crest. She could hear the white-haired human hiding with the Drall talking on a comlink, but she didn’t have the time or attention to spare enhancing her senses to listen; Madine was also shouting in his comlink, no doubt calling the commando reinforcements he’d promised would be available. 

Mara dodged left, avoiding another powerful downward slash. Her opponent’s lightsaber carved through the chair that the Drall had been sitting in, tip of the blade catching the computer terminal and splitting the monitor in two. A crash of electronics equipment sent a cascade of sparks down over her, and Mara rolled away, coming up on her toes and springing forward for a daring attack. He was ready for her, blocking her lunge with the center of his blade and using his strength to physically push her back. If not for years of dance training she might’ve fallen, but she caught her balance and dodged his retaliatory stroke, hearing his lightsaber buzz alarmingly close.

Her foe backed away, taking slow steps down the spiral stairs to the first floor, never turning fully away from her. She pursued, and with a leap she landed on the first floor of the apartment. She deflected a blaster bolt back towards the old man as she landed; he didn’t try shooting at her again.

Her danger sense was screaming now, but she already _knew_ there was danger—and then she saw it. The armored Force adept had made a mistake as he swept at her and she reacted to the offered opening, thrusting forward with a lunge and flicking the tip of her lightsaber up to sever his sword arm at the elbow—

Her lightsaber made contact with the man’s bronze armor and its blade abruptly vanished, its hum dying with a sickening mechanical spasm. 

The moment of sheer shock and disbelief at the abrupt betrayal of her weapon mingled with sudden, intense melancholy, because she was finished. She was extended, defenseless, and within easy reach of a skilled swordsman with a lit blade. 

It was odd, she thought in the heartbeat between moments. Serving as the Emperor’s Hand she’d always expected to die in his service, had known it could happen at any moment, but since she’d been freed from his voice she’d come to believe that she would have more time. 

  
  


* * *

  
  


The redheaded Jedi—for that was what she had to be, she was too skilled and too well trained to be a mere padawan learner, as he had first assumed—slipped her lightsaber through his defenses. It carved up to catch his elbow, and ought to have ended the fight right there.

But the Tevas-kaar’s armor was spun with cortosis ore. His order, tied to Tavira through debts of fealty neither he nor they would easily break, had mastered its secrets a century before. When he had first come to the Jensaarai, when they had found him, his soul mangled by the competing teachings of his fallen Master and his subsequent keepers, they had not trusted him. But he’d earned their trust, joined their order, taken a title appropriate to their ways. They had taught the secret of their armor, the importance of their anonymity, and the vital truths that they held so dear. 

A lightsaber would not pierce his armor. At least, not without repeated strikes. Clearly, the Jedi had not known his armor for what it was.

They hovered in that moment; she had extended in her vital lunge. His blue-white blade hummed, a simple stroke away from cleaving through her shoulder and chest. She had brilliant green eyes and he could see both in them and in her Force sense that she knew as well as he did that she could not get out of his reach faster than he could bring the killing stroke. Her moment of frozen horror would not hold her for long; it being _useless_ did not mean she should not _try._ After all, there was always a chance he would make a mistake. She was already starting to twist away, moving in a futile attempt to perhaps sacrifice an arm instead of her life.

Her Force sense sang with regret.

He hesitated, and that hesitation cost him. His focus so inerrantly on the Jedi, he had forgotten her companion. His blade moved without thought to intercept the blaster bolt aimed at his head, deflecting it back; he deflected a second, and a third, taking a step back to improve his body posture—

The Jedi had rolled away. A double-tap on the stud of her lightsaber and it sprang back into existence to her obvious relief. Instead of his blade carving through her, she caught the killing stroke and batted it back, then retreated towards the stairs, covering the man who had just saved her life; she reflected Vorru’s blaster fire back towards the Moff, bolts leaving embers in the apartment’s furniture, each one slowly stoking greater flames. 

* * *

Mara reached Madine’s side in two quick steps. He was sprawled on his back, using one of the apartment’s comfortable lounge chairs for cover. His armor had absorbed a lot of the energy of the blaster bolt that had saved Mara’s life, but not all of it, and his pained expression and blood-soaked tunic told the rest of the story. He offered her a painfully wry, genuinely amused smile, gasping as she peeled off his armor to put pressure on the wound. “T-this is why Mon Mothma doesn’t let me have any fun,” he bit out as she fumbled. “You never know when you’re going to run into a lightsaber,” he hissed as she applied a compress, taking a hitching breath. “How bad is it?” 

“You’ll live,” Mara replied shortly, risking a glance from behind the chair. She pulled out her blaster pistol and fired a few quick shots in the direction of the now huddled trio on the other side of the living room, who were hiding behind a table turned over onto its side. She put a few more shots into it for good measure, making sure they kept their heads down. “But I think you’re out of the fight for now.” She paused, holding the pressure on the wound, wishing the Force had more convenient tools to offer for healing than the healing trance. “Thanks,” she muttered, her eyes flicking to meet the General’s. “For saving my life.” 

“Oh, that,” Madine gasped, his hands squeezing tight, gritting his teeth. “What happened to your—” he flailed as she applied more pressure to the wound “—ooof… t-to your lightsaber?” 

“I don’t know,” she grated. “I hit him and it just vanished on me.” Memories of the Imperial Palace, of the material that Palpatine had used to line the walls around his most important working and living spaces, material that would prevent a lightsaber from cutting through it… she didn’t think she’d ever learned its name. “His armor must protect against lightsabers,” she said, trying not to reflect on just how close she’d just come to death. There would hopefully be time to be philosophical about it later. 

“Reinforcements… should be here soon,” Madine assured her, his expression slackening a bit. 

Indeed, outside Mara could hear the sound of sirens. Airspeeders from the Coruscant Constabulary, probably… they would’ve been dispatched when the neighbors started reporting the sound of blaster fire, and maybe called automatically by the building’s fire detection system. Flames had now fully consumed the banner with the Imperial crest, sending embers down in a mockery of a Tanaabian firelight show. Other, smaller fires were burning elsewhere, a legacy of errant or deflected blaster bolts. “Sounds like that’s them now,” she said, leaning out from behind the chair to fire a few more shots over the table the trio of enemies were hiding behind. 

Except they weren’t there anymore. The three of them had moved as one, dodging away from the large wall and its blazing, hanging Imperial banner, ducking into the apartment’s bedroom. She frowned, staring after them in confusion. _There is no way to escape the apartment from there, so why?_

The sounds of sirens were louder now; she could hear them screaming just on the other side of the apartment wall. It sounded like at least three airspeeders; the vibrations from their heavy repulsorlifts shook the entire building at this proximity—

She reacted without thinking. Grabbing Madine, she dragged him and threw him down in the kitchenette, protected by the heavily reinforced island counter, then hit the ground next to him and covered her head. There was a moment’s pause, the only sounds the hum from outside and Madine’s labored breathing, and then a barrage of energy fire tore the apartment apart. 

Three airspeeders, each one armed with vehicle-mounted anti-personnel cannons, opened fire as one. Red lasers burned through the exterior wall, blasting through the apartment and vaporizing what was left of the furniture. The smell of fresh night air and burning ozone came in as one as the wall shredded under the barrage, lasers ripping through transparisteel and the table and the chairs, through even the apartment’s far interior wall. Mara could now see the three airspeeders—marked in Coruscant Constabulary colors—hovering over the deep chasm that separated the towering apartment building with the adjacent ones, flickers of starlight and windows across the urban canyon as every person in a kilometer radius woke up as one. 

Clearly, they did not actually belong to the Constabulary. Either that, or the Constabulary had been bought. Both were real possibilities. 

The barrage stopped, leaving the apartment fully aflame. Mara poked her head up higher, saw the trio of intruders heading towards the newly made void in the wall; a nondescript airspeeder had approached, avoiding the falling permacrete and transparisteel to sidle up with the building, its side door gaping open. They were helping the Drall into the vehicle—he looked worse for wear—while the bronze armored Force adept held his lightsaber up protectively. She took a shot at them; the armored figure deflected it down into the floor.

Madine was recovered enough to be on his comlink. “Coruscant Control,” he gasped painfully as he held his link up to speak into it, his breathing labored. “This is… General Madine… require immediate military support and lockdown—”

Then Madine’s comm cut in over his transmission; a steely female voice with a Corellian accent: “Authorization Vermillion-Niner-Four. Friendlies attempting main entry. Keep your heads down.” 

The apartment’s front door burst open and the thump of combat boots resounded from the hallway. A human woman in light armor and a combat helmet entered, sweeping the room with a blaster rifle while a red-skinned, sharp-horned Devaronian came in hot on her heels lugging a nasty heavy-barreled repeating blaster. While the human posted up on the side of the large hole and began laying down sharp bursts of covering fire, the Devaronian leveled his cannon at the center of the gaping hole in the apartment wall, took careful aim, and pressed the firing stud. Four heavy bursts drilled into the rightmost airspeeder, punching holes in the canopy, the heavy turret, and the vehicle’s gunner. Mara focused through the Force, sensing other New Republic forces arriving, and a loud panicked buzz from the civilians scattering through and out of the building. 

Out the window, two tiny forms suddenly leapt from the third story landing platform, trailing slender wires, and landed on the middle airspeeder. They were small, little larger than Jawas, but the ferocious aliens had nimble balance and incredible strength. _Noghri,_ Mara realized.

The airspeeder’s gunner was gutted before he could react; the Noghri who had killed him heaved his corpse into the urban canyons below and commandeered the cannon, swinging it to bear on the other speeders. His partner had blasted a hole in the vehicle's canopy, popped it open, and slaughtered the three men inside with a vibroblade almost before they had realized he was there. The airspeeder swayed, twisting as the Noghri fought for control.

The third airspeeder opened fire again, and the heavy blaster bolts forced the woman to spin back and drop to her belly while the Devaronian hustled into cover next to Madine. Mara scooped up Madine’s fallen heavy blaster and swung it over the counter, firing back.

The old man, the Drall, and the bronze-armored Force adept had vanished along with the nondescript airspeeder. Mara wasn’t even sure how long it had been since they’d made their escape. 

“Hey General,” the Devaronian said to Madine casually. “Been a while since I last saw you in the field. Looks like you had a blast.” 

“Shut up, Kapp,” Madine coughed, wincing and holding a hand to his wound. “I thought you were detailed to Intelligence.”

“Still am,” Kapp replied with a devilish grin that faded when he noted the extent of Madine’s injury. “You don’t look so good. Should we call the medics?” He stripped a bacta patch off of his belt and slapped it on Madine’s chest, covering the wound. 

“Already did,” Madine groaned. “My shock troopers should… ugh… be arriving any minute now. But… thanks… for the backup,” he wheezed exhaustedly, taking long breaths between words. 

“Anytime,” Kapp said half-cheerfully, easing the heavy gun around for a few more shots. The fire in the apartment still raged, and out the now open wall Mara could hear additional sirens, these from the planetary fire and rescue service. 

Mara finally started to come down from her adrenaline high when she heard the booms of twin Novaldexx engines. A pair of A-wings screamed by outside, rattling every window in a three kilometer radius. The fact that Rebel ships could evoke a sense of ease in her was not something Mara wanted to unpack just then. 

She watched with a rattled detachment as the airspeeders tried to make a run for it, but with A-wings around there was no chance they could get away. Mara just hoped they could down the vehicles without sending them into any inhabited buildings. The Noghri who now controlled the middle airspeeder brought it to land above them.

Finally Madine’s commandos arrived, two entire tac-teams of some of the most dangerous-looking sapients Mara had ever seen, some carrying fire suppression gear, and one carrying a medpac who rushed over to Madine. None of them looked visibly concerned, but all of them took up positions around Mara and the general, shielding them both with their bodies and heavy armor.

 _This_ , Mara thought with fierce appreciation, _is service you can’t buy or instill through fear. This is years of pure unadulterated respect and professionalism repaid instantly. And it wasn’t earned through lies._

“Clear?” It was the woman who led the first insertion, crouching with her rifle held low—ready and finger off the trigger. 

“Clear,” Kapp replied confidently. He waved one of the commandos to search the apartment; they fanned out carefully, blasters sweeping the dark corners as lights from the far side of the urban canyon and the sound of sirens peeked through the now gaping hole in the apartment. 

Fresh night air swept in, sending a chill over Mara’s skin.

The woman rose slightly to look around her, then safed and slung her rifle before moving over, still low, through the smog between them to the nearly indestructible cover the three of them were hiding behind. 

Streaks of grime and soot accentuated her fine, pale features, while a wisp of blonde or light brown hair (Mara couldn’t tell with all the smoke), emerged from underneath the helmet. She brightened with relief when she saw Kapp with Madine and Mara. 

“Hey, Iella,” Kapp waved her over, gesturing to the supine Madine. “Look who decided to go on a field operation, and at his age!”

 _Iella?_ Mara thought, surprised and giving the woman a second look.

Madine himself didn’t even have the grace to look abashed, “Excellent timing… you’re Agent Wessiri, correct?” He grimaced, pushing the bacta pack against his wound again, “ouch—remind me to… have Colonel Dendo spend a few months doing budget analysis. I think that’s the agreed-upon penalty… for quipping about a General’s age…” 

The Devaronian grinned, but didn’t say anything more as the woman, apparently Mara’s partner-in-waiting, the storied Iella Wessiri, finally gave Mara her undivided attention. She had kind eyes, which clashed with her focused expression. “You must be Mara Jade,” she said, her gaze meeting Mara’s. “I hear we’re going to be working together.” Iella extended her hand.

Mara took it. Wessiri was younger than she had expected, without the perpetual hard-bitten expression or sinewy age she’d guessed the woman would possess. She certainly looked nothing like Ysanne Isard. “Agent Wessiri,” she replied, trying to keep the still aching anxiety from just how close she’d come to death out of her voice and expression. _Get it together, Mara. You’ve come close to death before._ “Thank you for the help. I’ve heard a lot about you.” 

“All of it good, I hope.”

Mara thought about how complimentary Karrde and Cracken had sounded, and of the warm affection she’d heard in Skywalker’s voice when he’d talked about the woman who now, finally, stood before her in well-worn tactical gear. “All good,” Mara agreed. “From a truly remarkable range of people.” 

Kapp was taking Madine’s vitals; the General looked pale, but his breathing was steady. “Sure you’re not a little old for field work, Crix?” Kapp teased him, though his tone didn’t quite match the lighthearted words. 

“Sure you don’t want to spend a month doing the military’s budget reports?” Madine grimaced, his breathing growing steadier. “But, ugh, maybe Mon has a point.” He shifted uncomfortably; the screaming of engines and the rattling of windows had subsided, so if there was any fighting ongoing, it was more distant now. “I think that was Black Sun,” Madine added absently. 

Iella’s eyebrows both rose. “Black Sun? I didn’t see any markings or characteristic tactics.” 

“I recognized one of the men who was here.” Madine sighed, his breathing becoming more relaxed as the bacta soothed the pain from the wound. “Oh, that’s better… I doubt there’s any Corellian my age who wouldn’t recognize Moff Fliry Vorru.”

Wessiri’s kind eyes went cold and her tone even colder. “ _Vorru_? Are you sure?” 

Madine nodded seriously, his expression still pained. “I’m sure. I met him once, before Palpatine removed him as Corellia’s Moff, and saw him in plenty of news bulletins when I was younger. He looked older, but it was him, or a damn near likeness. Or a clone, I suppose.”

The combat haze started to fade from Mara’s mind. She’d never met Vorru—Palpatine had taken him out of circulation before she’d been fully active as the Emperor’s Hand—but she knew him by reputation. The Imperial Moffdom had been of two minds about him; either he was a genius, a real rival for the likes of Grand Moff Tarkin, or he was a lowlife criminal whose only success had been the product of playing with the Fringe. Either way, Vorru was someone the Emperor’s Hand had been predisposed to distrust. 

The fire in the living room was still burning; outside the window, a fire suppression speeder was starting to spray large amounts of anti-fire foam into the room, putting out the flames around the building’s open wound. It gave the air a heady, humid weight. 

Iella seemed not to notice; her expression tight. “Last time I saw Vorru I was throwing him back on Kessel. I hoped he was smart enough to stay there, or maybe just escape to quiet retirement.” She shook herself, then nodded slowly. “Okay. So Fliry Vorru’s out and involved. That makes a certain amount of sense. It also presents some new avenues for investigation.” She nodded at her partner. “Kapp, Hospital is five minutes out. Comm Cracken, let the authorities clean this up, and tell him to send a team of techs to toss the computers here to figure out what they were up to.” She gestured at the melted wreck of the apartment. “Assuming there’s anything left to find.”

Mara barely heard her. The burning Imperial tapestry on the wall had been extinguished, but not before the crest emblazoned on it had been burned half away. She heard Iella and Kapp discussing objectives, answered direct questions when asked, but she remembered that tapestry. Remembered the little girl she’d been, determined, fierce and obedient, brought to this apartment with an Imperial General who’d tutored her in infiltration and commando tactics. 

She also remembered the white-masked Force-wielder, a blue lightsaber in his hand. She remembered the moment of desperation when her lightsaber died. And she knew that despite Madine’s intervention, she was only alive because her foe had hesitated before delivering the killing blow. 

“Miss Jade?” 

Wessiri was peering at her, with an expression that bore a mixture of concern and curiosity. 

Mara shook herself. There would be time to think about it later, when the mission was done. Recalling many a post-mission debriefing, she began her recitation of what had happened.

  
  


* * *

It took Vorru, Eliezer, the Tevas-kaar, and their pilot six hours to circle back around to their ship, once they were very, _very_ sure that it hadn’t been given away. 

Vorru had no idea how the Republic had found out about his presence on Coruscant and his operation in Argosy District, but it was obvious that it had, somehow. General Crix Madine did not just appear on a whim, and the Republic had sent not just him, but also a Jedi. They’d been keeping the fact that they had more than one very quiet. It was evident, though, that he had not been _fully_ betrayed; the timing of the intervention, combined with the lackluster amount of men who had been accompanying Madine, suggested that whatever they’d done to give away the game, it was a mistake they’d made relatively late. 

The hangar holding _Lefler’s Rose_ was not particularly busy at this hour in the morning, so they were able to return to the freighter without further incident. The pilot immediately headed for the cockpit, getting them ready for departure, while Eliezer settled into his normal seat in the lounge and started clacking away at his terminal. 

The Tevas-kaar was quiet, as usual, but Vorru thought he saw a bit of additional stiffness in the man’s stance. His face was revealed, his helmet sitting in his lap as he sat on one of the other chairs in the lounge, staring into space. Vorru couldn’t even begin to guess what the man was thinking, but he had saved all their lives with his skilled confrontation of the female Jedi. Vorru hadn’t seen much of it, distracted as he’d been with communicating with Roeder to make sure the reinforcements served their purpose and trading blaster fire with Madine, but he’d seen enough. 

Eliezer made a satisfied sound and Vorru looked over. “How much did we get?” he asked. The question had been churning in his gut ever since the Jedi had plunged her lightsaber through the apartment’s holocom. How much they had gotten of Isard’s black accounts, of Xizor’s seized fortune, would determine how ambitious they could hope to be… 

The Drall’s beady black eyes focused on Vorru. “Sixty-five percent,” he said with satisfaction. “And we still might get more, depending on if the Republic manages to find all my pre-programmed credit transfer requests. I’ve got the credits stashed away in two hundred different accounts all across the galaxy for easy access no matter where we end up.”

 _Sixty-five percent. Sixty-five percent._ The number bounced around in Vorru’s head, avarice and joy and ambition ballooning in his head. That would be enough. That would be _more_ than enough. “Transfer half of the agreed-upon sums into the accounts of our Black Sun colleagues,” he said, barely hearing the words as he spoke them. “Save the other half for now; a taste will assure loyalty. We’ll wait until we’re back at Linuri to give Tavira her cut,” he added, glancing at the Tevas-kaar. While the armored man didn’t react to their conversation, Vorru suspected he heard every word. “In the meantime, let’s get clearance to depart and get off this rock before the Republic tracks us down.”

Eliezer nodded, his expression gleaming with the same success-driven adrenaline that Vorru felt. _Sixty-five percent,_ his inner voice echoed. _It’s not a hundred, but it’s still more than enough._

Fliry Vorru was now one of the richest men in the galaxy. And he knew _exactly_ how he would use that wealth. 

* * *

Their departure was delayed. 

Eliezer sat at his computer terminal, working away to ensure that their hidden freighter would not be discovered. He’d scrambled their escape in a dozen different ways, each designed to ensure they couldn’t be tracked, and was currently working his way through the traffic control computer network to make sure their exit would be clear. 

Vorru watched him, a ridiculous combination of giddy and paranoid. _Sixty-five percent._ That would give him a hefty financial foundation to work from. Not quite forty billion credits, give or take, depending on exactly how much had been let in Isard’s black budget. It wouldn’t compare to the fortunes of the Kuati aristocracy—not even close—but it was nonetheless an ample sum, and one that on the Fringe would give him real, tremendous power. 

Or he could use it to try to buy his way into the domain of polite politics again. A donation to a Senator here, a sector governor there, and just maybe he’d be accepted into the edges of the New Republic’s political society. Once entrenched, he could steadily grow his influence. 

Options, options. Of course, he was inclined to go where he saw the most potential for growth, and that meant there was really only one option. He’d have to remind Eliezer to resume his tracking efforts, once they were safe. If they were safe. 

Eliezer’s nails ceased their steady clacking on the keyboard, and Vorru looked up in response to the silence. “We’re going to have to wait to leave,” Eliezer said. “Not very long. Maybe half a day. The New Republic’s intelligence agencies are scouring the system right now, they must have a small army of droids doing data collection, taking down the information on every ship that tries to leave the system, and their customs enforcement has ramped up just a bit to get a closer look at outgoing ships.” He coughed, rubbing his mouth with the back of his furred hand, looking utterly exhausted. “I can make sure we blend in with the crowd, but I think we should wait.” 

“Is waiting safe?” 

“Yes,” Eliezer nodded weakly but confidently. “I’ve covered our trail thoroughly, and the mess Roeder made should keep the local authorities very busy for at least that long.” 

That raised a different issue, and Vorru frowned. “Do you have any idea who that was who attacked us? The Jedi?” 

Eliezer shrugged. “I assumed you would have some idea.”

He didn’t. Vorru didn’t like that, either. It was one thing to know your enemies, to anticipate their countermoves. If it had been Cracken’s men, he would’ve understood; it would have meant he underestimated NRI. There was always a risk of that. But General Madine and a Jedi? Alone? “I don’t,” he admitted. “I can try looking into it, but only once we’re off Coruscant. I don’t want to risk reaching out to Black Sun and leaving open a communications vulnerability that might be traced back to us.” 

Eliezer stood, sliding from his chair and onto the deck of the freighter. He walked gingerly across the lounge, pressing on a button on the wall underneath the freighter’s original name, _Lefler’s Rose._ The lounge window—previously sealed—slid open slowly, with a grating, cranking sound, letting the morning sun cast through it and over his dark fur. 

Vorru walked over to join him at the window. Outside, Coruscant glittered. Even Argosy District, which was a shadow of the glory of the Palace District, cascaded with shining light. “It reminds me of Coronet City back home,” Vorru said. 

The Drall scoffed, coughed, and shook his head with disgust. “No. Coronet is a wonder and deserves to be known as one. For all this planet has a gaudy name and reputation, it’s a pit. The bright center of the galaxy,” he said sarcastically, “is only bright because it steals the light from the rest of the galaxy, like an Anzati sucking the life from a victim.” He scowled out at the urban canyons, the rows of airspeeders above their landing pad, and the carefully controlled clouds of the sky above. “The Empire is dead, and nothing has changed,” he said with a pained, contemptuous grimace. “Nothing at all.” 

  
  



	21. Chapter Twenty

Under the early morning light of a new day, Councilor Leia Organa Solo surveyed the wrecked safehouse apartment with awed detachment, managing to suppress the low whistle she was _sure_ she'd picked up from Han. Given all the years Leia served with the Rebellion, she was hardly unaccustomed to battle damage; being a dignitary didn't make her immune to the dangers of combat, and she had served as a soldier when needed. Still, it had been some time since she'd been in a lightfight, and longer still since she'd stuck around to investigate the results of high-grade blasters up close.

The room still stank of ozone and tibanna gas effluent.

Next to her, one of the people who had been in that room and survived grimaced, holding a hand over the bacta patch he still had affixed to his chest. "Next, Trader Jade took us into cover in the kitchen," Madine nodded over to one of the few parts of the apartment that was still recognizable. "She must have remembered that the material here was reinforced to stand up to heavy blaster fire. Or made a very lucky guess. The suborned Constabulary speeders wrecked everything else on this floor with their opening barrage, and our quarry must have escaped in the confusion. After that Kapp and Agent Wessiri made a tactical entry and opened up on the enemy to clear the bought cops out."

"With our Noghri team," Iella added modestly. "Kapp and the Noghri did the hard work." Iella glanced at Leia's Noghri bodyguard, Cakhmaim, but Cakhmaim was studiously silent and still. Only Leia could feel his quiet approval of his kinsmen's actions.

"How'd you get here so fast?" Madine asked curiously. "You got here ahead of my commandos, and I didn't call you."

"No, but Miss Jade contacted General Cracken," Iella said. "We'd tracked Eliezer to Coruscant; I pulled a few of his computer programs off the prison hardware and we got lucky and found one of them active here; we were already on-world to investigate. The program lit up on our tracker, but we couldn't narrow it down to a specific location other than 'somewhere on Coruscant.' It wasn't even five minutes later that Jade called to tell Cracken that she thought there was an infiltration at an old Imperial facility; he put two and two together."

"Have we had any luck tracking down Vorru, Eliezer, and the Force-adept?" Leia asked.

Iella's expression darkened. "No. They escaped on an airspeeder, and then Eliezer did something to scramble Coruscant's traffic control computers. It randomly reassigned identifying tags to all vehicles in Argosy District, and in two of the neighboring districts besides. Traffic control's admin thinks he'll be able to sort it out in two or three weeks. It's probably not worth the effort, but we might be able to use it to identify their ship."

Madine and Leia both frowned. "Clever," Leia said. "So what now, then?" She gestured at the hole where the building's external wall had been. "I'm going to be playing peacemaker between local authorities and the New Republic government for the next week. The District Comptroller is furious and wants to know how and why the local Constabulary ended up in a running fight with the New Republic military, complete with A-wings running close air support through one of the busier streets on this side of the planet."

Coruscant's local politics could be a nightmare, which was why despite the changeover from Empire to Republic (and before that, from Republic to Empire), municipal government on the planet had remained effectively unchanged for centuries. Each district had its own rules, and even someone like Leia, as well-versed in galactic politics as anyone in that galaxy, found Coruscant's local political traditions arcane.

"So do I," Madine growled.

"I think that's an easy enough question to answer," Iella said. "Vorru has ties to Black Sun, and Black Sun makes a point of infiltrating local governments and police services everywhere they do business, _especially_ Coruscant. It wouldn't surprise me if a third of the Constabulary in Argosy District receives supplemental income from Black Sun. The _better_ question," she mused thoughtfully, "is what did Vorru use to pay for that support? Black Sun doesn't work for credit or loyalty alone."

"I can answer that question," said a new voice from the floor above. The stairs between the three floors of the lofted apartment had survived more or less intact, but General Cracken descended them gingerly, with the light tread of a professional spy. "The techs just finished their examination of the terminal upstairs, and have started sorting through the networks that they infiltrated from it." The older man's expression was pale, and Leia felt her guts tighten at the sight of Airen Cracken looking anything less than in total equanimity. "It linked directly into what used to be the Imperial banking establishment, among other things." He sighed. "Vorru and Eliezer stole something on the order of fifty-eight billion credits."

Leia felt her mouth drop open. "What?"

Cracken nodded miserably. "Fifty-eight _billion_. Eliezer routed it offworld through the HoloNet with about fifty million independent, automated transactions. It's really a remarkable piece of work. I think we'll be able to hunt some of it down, but not that much." He shook his head, his expression turning to one of wry amazement. "Apparently, the Empire buried a handful of credit accounts after seizing them upon the death of their original owners. They all got quietly added to Imperial Intelligence's black budget. Isard's doing, no doubt. The account that Eliezer emptied originally belonged to Underlord Xizor of Black Sun."

Leia's mouth closed with an angry click. She'd had the misfortune of meeting Xizor while Han had been in carbonite. But Xizor had died not long after, when in a fit of pique Darth Vader had ordered Xizor's personal Skyhook destroyed and _Executor_ scattered its debris across Coruscant's orbit.

Xizor had been an extraordinarily wealthy man, both because of his legal and his illegal businesses. His legal business, Xizor Transport Systems, had been broken up by the Empire and its assets seized. A fair number of its inheritor companies were now members of the Smugglers' Alliance.

"You said a handful of credit accounts? There was more than one?" Iella asked curiously.

"There were, but the others were all already closed. I've got a team of forensic accountants looking into it. It looks like what was left of the Motti family fortune and Darth Vader's personal fortune were all stashed in there too, but either Isard spent it all or someone else had already gotten to them before Eliezer got here."

Cracken's eyes flicked meaningfully to Leia when he mentioned Vader. Leia paled. _Vader's personal fortune?_

Cracken's gaze didn't linger over Leia for more than a moment. He might know of her genetic parentage—many of the New Republic's inner circle did, at this point—but he'd never made a point of it in the past. "So," he continued tiredly. "We've now got Vorru, Tavira, Eliezer, and this unnamed Force-adept working together, with a Star Destroyer, unlimited access to the HoloNet, and fifty-eight billion credits to their name." He rubbed his temple. "Ugh."

Leia felt her stomach tighten. Put that way, it sounded disastrous. "So what do we do?"

"I'm working on leads," Iella said. "This isn't a total disaster. If Jade hadn't been alerted to the breach here, I wouldn't have clocked Vorru and we still wouldn't know he escaped Kessel again. Vorru is our best lead I think. I know he was on Kessel not that long ago; I had to put him there so he wouldn't start working on people who owed him favors. I can take a team to Kessel and investigate the circumstances surrounding his escape. Maybe I can dig into his communications history there, try to figure out what else he's planning." She frowned. "I'll need a fast ship to get out to Kessel as quickly as possible, and I'll need a fringer who's more familiar with the planet than me."

Leia felt her stomach tighten even more, but put that way there was no avoiding it. "I'll ask Han," she sighed, regretting every syllable. "He knows Moruth Doole personally from his smuggler days, and you can't find a faster ship than the _Falcon._ "

Iella's gaze was sympathetic, but she knew better than to turn down the offer. "Thank you."

"Don't thank me," Leia said tiredly. There was always something to pull one or the other of them away… "Just bring Han back in one piece."

"You should also ask Miss Jade to accompany you," Madine suggested. The others turned to him, and he shrugged. "She's good in a fight, and she's invested in this now."

"I agree. You're going to need someone to even the odds against their Force user, and Luke has already gone off to rejoin the Rogues in case this Force adept shows up again there," added Leia.

"It does make sense," said Cracken. "I can't believe Vorru would stay on-world after almost getting caught here. He got what he came for—he'll be off to safer grounds where he can spend his new fortune, especially if he doesn't know how we tracked him down to start with."

Leia nodded at Iella. "You two are going to be working together. It seems like a good opportunity to develop your partnership."

"Where is Miss Jade?" asked Cracken with a frown.

Leia remembered Mara's expression when Leia had arrived; finding her dazedly observing the New Republic commandos as they searched every inch of the apartment. They had been tearing into a closet filled with the armor of the Emperor's Hand, sized for an adolescent. The haunted look in her eyes… "I sent her home," Leia said firmly. "She needed to rest." She crossed her arms in a way she'd learned drew all attention to her and expressed displeasure. "There is something else we must discuss. Why exactly was it that I had to find out about all this from the Holonews? Did you not think to comm me last night?" she asked archly.

Cracken and Madine exchanged a very meaningful glance, then both looked at Iella, apparently throwing her under that particular hoverbus. Iella's expression paled as she regarded their expressions and visibly braced herself before answering.

Leia hid a smile. It was good to know that she could still intimidate Generals with the merest hint of displeasure. If only that extended to Han, but perhaps reprobate Corellian _ex_ -Generals were immune.

"Madam Councilor, please forgive me—I just sneak around and write intelligence briefs. I figure with the twins and your job you need all the sleep you can get," said Iella cautiously.

Leia's eyes narrowed. "Do all Corellians interpret directives as creatively as possible, or is it just the ones who dare defy the Diktat?"

"That's a highly general statement Madam Councilor," Iella said, mouth quirking briefly into a smile. "I couldn't possibly be expected to comment on it. Although if a homemade rhyschate appears at your apartment later today, you might view it as a peace offering."

"I'll take it," Leia smiled back, but the smile didn't quite reach her eyes. "With you borrowing my husband for your expedition, I'm going to be in want of good home cooking."

* * *

_It was midday, and the bright noontime sun shone through the pillars that lined either side of the broad open space, down through the slightly shaded glass roof. There were distant sounds beyond, repulsorlifts and starship engines, humming through the sky to their myriad of destinations. Closer, there were voices, instructions, the sense of motion and of meditation, of energy and potential._

" _Conserve your movements," a mature male voice said firmly, with the sense of long experience in the art of instruction. "The lightsaber is about grace, not power, and grace is found in your wrists, not your arms."_

_The youth receiving the education—a boy, perhaps nine years old—had white-blonde hair. He was tall and powerfully built for a child his age, lanky and awkward. The boy followed the instructions as best he could, but clearly didn't know exactly what his teacher intended for him to learn. "I don't understand," he complained, his voice pitched with the whine of an adolescent._

" _Move as I do, young one. Stretch out and feel the Force. We will show you the way."_

Mara woke with a pounding headache. She was still fully dressed from the night before, her lightsaber set next to her on her nightstand. With a groan she sat up.

She was halfway through with her morning preparations, showered and dressed and working through breakfast—a soothingly anodyne Imperial ration bar she'd pulled out of one of her stashes—when the dream finally returned to her consciousness. She'd had a few confusing dreams after missions, but she'd had a starring role in most of them. In this one, it had been like looking through a holoprojector, a mere observer.

She took a bite out of the ration bar. It didn't taste like much, but she knew from experience that it'd satiate her need for food for the entire morning, and she didn't have the appetite or the desire for social camouflage exemplified at Woonseer's. With Skywalker offworld, the place had lost much of its appeal. It was odd, how a sanctuary when she wished solitude, so often her default state, suddenly became unappealing when she was without company.

She wondered what Luke would say about…

 _About the dream,_ she meant…

Mara froze, her ration bar hovering halfway towards her mouth. She and Skywalker had many conversations during their meetings at the Cafe and their training sessions, and she distinctly remembered him telling her about his visions during his meditations. A man and a boy in lightsaber training. The man giving instruction, the boy complaining, and Skywalker being at a loss as to what the Force was trying to communicate.

 _Kriffing wonderful_. She spends a little bit of time with the Jedi and now _she_ was the one getting _his_ damned Force visions with no way to tweak context menus or change the blasted channel. He had warned her that her Force intuition would grow stronger, but _visions_ and _dreams_ were Jedi business! And if she knew _anything_ , it was that she was _no Jedi_ , the words emphatically slotting into her psyche as if to confirm her tainted spirit and unsavory history.

Sighing, she rubbed her temple and took another bite of the ration bar. Well, she supposed, the best place to start, as with any investigation, was by reviewing the available facts. She thought about the two people in the vision, running through a Force memory enhancement technique, focusing on faces and features…

Her eyes widened. Scrambling for her jacket, she slung it over her shoulders and raced out the door.

* * *

Luckily, the museum pass that Leia had given Mara still worked. Unluckily, Mara had arrived at the museum during the morning rush. Children and teachers swirled around, conducting traffic to exhibits as she tried, mostly unsuccessfully, to make haste through the flood of bodies. She stepped into and through the crowd, dodging passers-by and darting through openings when they presented themselves. It took considerably longer to make her way than it had the last time she had come here.

The doors to the Jedi exhibit were closed, but as before they opened dutifully for her. She swept down the darkened corridor, her feet clicking against the stone floor and into the darkened, cobweb-ridden museum. She didn't pause to meander, but made a straight-line beeline down the same path she had taken the last time she was here, this time giving in to the temptation to clear her path of dangling spiderwebs with her lightsaber. It only took her a few minutes to return to the statue of Ranik Solusar. The faceless man stood there, silent, but as she lingered the exhibit triggered and the hologram of the man was projected, smaller than the statue but large enough for a close examination, on the floor next to her.

"Ranik Solusar, Jedi Master. He was known for his service in the Outer Rim, combating piracy and misuse of the Force."

Ranik Solusar was tall, with a square jaw. In the holo he was smiling, which matched laugh-lines that crinkled his face. As in her dream, he had white hair despite looking too young for it. There wasn't any doubt—it was the same man.

"Shavit," Mara muttered. It was one thing if she'd been wrong. But she hadn't been, she'd been right, which meant the dream _had_ been Force-inspired. And _that_ was most emphatically a Jedi thing. She frowned, scrolling through the other data available on the exhibit idly as she resolutely ignored the implications.

RANIK SOLUSAR. HUMAN. BORN IN LASLOW, ON SOLON, ON 9\8\45, PRE-EMPIRE DATE. ATTENDED JEDI TRAINING CENTER ON SOLON 2\15\37 TO 8\14\27 PE. PRIVATE JEDI TRAINING BEGUN 9\27 PE WITH JEDI MASTER THOLME. GRANTED TITLE JEDI KNIGHT 12\14\23 PE. JOINED TEAM OF ANTARIAN RANGERS COMBATING BLACK SUN EXPANSION IN COR'RIC SECTOR 2\23 to 5\22 PE. LED TEAM OF ANTARIAN RANGERS COMBATING BLACK SUN PRESENCE IN KIBLINI SECTOR, 2\21 TO 7\19 PE. GRANTED TITLE JEDI MASTER 9\9\17 PE. SERVED AS INSTRUCTOR ABOARD JEDI TRAINING VESSEL _MAY'THANA_ 10\17 TO 6\15 PE. GRANTED LEAVE OF ABSENCE FROM JEDI ORDER 8\15 TO 5\7 PE. RETURNED TO JEDI ORDER 5\7 PE. SERVED AS INSTRUCTOR AT JEDI TRAINING CENTER ON SOLON, 5\7 PE TO 11\1 PE. DEATH REPORTED BY DARTH VADER ON NEFTALI, 10\2, STANDARD IMPERIAL RECKONING. HIGHLIGHTS SUMMARY ENDS.

Mara ran her hands through her hair, frustrated. Okay, so the Force was giving both her and Luke a vision, specifically of a dead Jedi Master, Ranik Solusar, and a student. Receiving it herself wasn't quite ideal, but unless she wanted to hide in a Ysalamiri bubble the Force wasn't giving her much of a choice in the matter. But _why?_ There had to be something important in the timing; the dream had to be _useful_ somehow.

Maybe Wessiri could help her sort it out. After all, an NRI operative would have access to records and information that Mara lacked. Wasn't that the whole point of their prospective partnership? She searched for her com while grabbing at Solusar's personal belongings and taking what she could.

"Wessiri," the comlink reported when the connection was made.

"Agent Wessiri, this is Mara Jade. I need to talk to you. Can we meet?"

* * *

Iella's apartment didn't feel like home. It had been years since she had actually _lived_ on Coruscant. After she and Corran had crossed Imperial Intelligence and been forced to split up and flee Corellia, she'd made Coruscant her refuge. She and Diric had blended in with the crowd, living quiet, reasonably prosperous, anonymous lives with the throngs of people, many of whom were barely aware of anything outside of the kilometer radius around their house. They'd barely realized the Republic had fallen and the Empire had risen, and it would have been so _easy_ to just live that quiet, prosperous life.

But she'd never been one to tolerate tyranny, even if it meant a life of comfort.

The apartment had all the accoutrements of a home. There were several different hand-sketched drawings of Corellian scenery on the walls, only one of which Iella had ever had the opportunity to see with her own eyes. They had been gifts from Wedge, a first attempt at taking her sterile apartment and transforming it into something more. A holo of Corran and Mirax sat on the table in the middle of the living room in pride of place, her former CorSec partner and his smuggler wife. On the other table was an old holo of Wedge and his comrades from their time on Hoth. Luke Skywalker had his arm slung around Wedge's shoulders, the two of them grinning at something Dack had said, while Hobbie, Tycho, Zev, and Wes laughed in the background, all wearing their orange flight suits.

Even with the trappings of a home, it wasn't. A home was more than a place to sleep, it was a place to belong, with love and friends and routine. With neighbors, and family _._

She picked up the last holo in the apartment. Diric had been a good man, patient and kind and trusting, but not naive. He had been older than she was, possessing enough family wealth to be comfortable, but without the entitlement that so often came with privilege. Their love hadn't ever been passionate, but she hadn't been looking for passion. Their apartments on Corellia and Coruscant had been home.

Ysanne Isard had killed him.

However driven she had been before Diric's death, however incapable she had been of just quietly living well, after Diric had died, the _way_ he had died, she had been a single-minded torpedo aiming to burn her way through the Empire and Isard. The only thing that had kept her from self-immolating was Wedge, his hand finding hers, letting her know that she could _live_ again, someday.

Dreaming of a new life after the Empire, a home she and Wedge would make together, didn't mean she burned any less hot, though. Which was why her apartment had a fully-secured intelligence suite, including two full-access terminals. The attached weapons locker wasn't really her style—she preferred to outthink her enemies than outfight them—but it was better to be safe than sorry.

The fact that she came here more often to work than to spend time with Wedge was probably the other reason it didn't feel like a home. Not all that different from the burned-out apartment she'd spent much of the previous day in, really.

There was a chime at the door and she checked the security monitor. Mara Jade was outside, glancing down the hallway in each direction to make sure she hadn't been followed. Iella buzzed her in.

Mara was shorter than Iella, brimming with focused energy. She glanced around the apartment, drinking in the surroundings, her eyes lingering over first the holo of Diric, then the holo of Wedge and the Rogues—her back stiffened slightly, Iella noted curiously—and then Mara focused on her. "We didn't really get a chance to really introduce ourselves," Mara said cautiously. "I'm Mara Jade."

Iella laughed and extended her hand. Mara took it. "Hello, Mara Jade," Iella said with a slight bow of her head. "I'm Iella Wessiri. I hear our bosses have decided that we're going to be working together."

"For the good of the galaxy, I'm sure," Mara replied dryly, visibly relaxing at Iella's informality. "Thank you for the help last night," she continued. "General Madine and I weren't sure what to expect, but a company of the Coruscant Constabulary and three fully loaded combat airspeeders wasn't it."

"You're welcome," Iella replied, guiding Mara to sit on her couch. The furniture was rarely used and stiff to sit on, resisting their weight as she sat across from the former Emperor's Hand. "Thank you for being alert to their presence. Without you, they would've gotten in and out without anyone being the wiser."

"Have you had any luck tracking them down?"

Iella sighed. That had been a battle she never had any chance to win. "No. I'm quite sure they're either offworld or about to be. We considered a temporary blockade of Coruscant, but do you know how many transports arrive and leave this planet every day? Even a temporary blockade would've caused serious shortages of vital goods, and the politicians vetoed the idea. If Vorru hasn't escaped already, he soon will."

Coruscant was an ecumenopolis and couldn't even feed itself; the minimal agriculture the planet did produce was barely sufficient to satisfy the members of the planetary aristocracy who had the wealth and clout to demand truly fresh produce. The wealthiest of the planet's population would be able to eat under a blockade that lasted more than a month; everyone else would starve.

Mara nodded her understanding, a small grimace on her lips.

"I discussed this with Councilor Organa and General Cracken this morning," Iella continued. "I'm going to be traveling to Kessel tomorrow on the _Millennium Falcon._ "

Mara blinked in surprise. "Solo is letting you borrow his ship?"

Iella laughed. "Oh, no certainly not. But he's agreed to ferry us and introduce us to Moruth Doole when we arrive. I want to get there as soon as possible; our lead on Eliezer has just about gone completely cold, and whatever tracks Vorru left during his escape from Kessel might evaporate at any time." She wrinkled her nose. "If we were willing to delay our arrival a day or two we could bring a Star Cruiser as an escort, but that's just too long."

It was a risk, Iella knew, but it was one they had to take. Mara didn't seem either surprised or critical, merely another professional considering a problem.

"The Councilor and General believe that you ought to accompany me," Iella added.

Mara frowned. "I have responsibilities here as the Liaison of the Smugglers' Alliance. Right now I'm our entire administrative apparatus, and I've been fielding questions and concerns from our customers all week—"

"General Cracken has suggested that you might be amenable to a gift. We have a number of espionage-grade protocol droids who would be capable of providing administrative assistance."

Mara quirked an eyebrow in surprise. It was quite a gift. Espionage droids were rare and expensive—the good ones, at least. Ones with good administrative and logistics programming were even more rare. "And in exchange for this gift?"

Iella smiled, folding her arms across her lap as she relaxed into her uncomfortable couch. "I think General Cracken said something about him already owing Karrde, and preferring not to stay in debt for long."

Mara snorted. "If Karrde's mission on Rendili went well, I can assure you that an espionage droid is an inadequate repayment. But all right. I want to get to the bottom of this as much as you do, and if we are going to be working partners it would be impolitic at best to let you go off to a place like Kessel alone." She folded her arms across her chest. Mara had quite a gaze, Iella thought, resisting the urge to fiddle with any of the nicknacks she had on her living room table.

"Why don't I tell you everything I already know, then," Iella volunteered, leaning forward towards Mara. "Vorru, the HoloNet slicer, what little I know about the Force adept. Then…" she inclined a finger towards Mara, "you can tell me why exactly you wanted to meet."

Mara regarded her, then nodded.

* * *

"So that's it," Iella finished, sighing as she tried to get comfortable. "Our leads on Eliezer have dried up for now. NRI thinks they'll be able to give us some new ones once he starts using his programs to slice the HoloNot again, but until then there's nowhere to go. That leaves just Vorru, and the only thing we really know is that he escaped from Kessel, presumably with Tavira's help. So, Kessel it is."

"How many credits did Vorru and this Eliezer get out of the black accounts?" Mara asked curiously.

"Fifty-eight billion, give or take a few million," Iella said, rubbing her hands over her face wearily. "Enough to buy a fleet of Star Destroyers, or a dozen." She sighed and stood, fetching an amber-colored liquid from the drinks cabinet. The touch of the wood brought back memories—it was the only piece of furniture she had kept from her first apartment on Coruscant, the one she had shared with Diric. She poured two glasses and returned, handing one to Mara. "The Empire had appropriated a few prominent fortunes, including Xizor and Vader, though it looks like Vader's was already gone."

Mara took the drink, pausing midway through a sip when Iella mentioned Vader. "Interesting." She finished her sip slowly and felt the smooth burn of quality whisky, then turned towards Iella. "Maybe Kessel is not our only lead." To Iella's surprise Mara actually looked vaguely abashed. "I think I might have something on the third of the trio."

"The Force adept?" Iella asked, surprised. "We haven't been able to find anything. I've got people scouring the records looking for any reports of an armored man wearing a white mask, but I'm told that I shouldn't get my hopes up." She leaned forward, the stiff couch crinkling under her. "Is this some kind of Force hunch? Luke would get those when we worked together."

Mara's expression tightened at the mention of Luke's name, Iella noted. She filed that fact away for later. "You could say that. I had a dream. Last night, after the fight," Mara admitted.

"A dream?" Iella asked skeptically.

Mara nodded. "Skywalker was having visions that were similar before he left. A man and a boy doing lightsaber training." She took a datapad out of her pack and slid it across the table to Iella, who took it. As the NRI agent surveyed the information, Mara continued. "The man was Ranik Solusar, a Jedi of the old Republic."

"It says here he died on Neftali," Iella said as she finished the quick read. "What does this have to do with our Force adept?"

"The mask he was wearing during our fight," Mara explained. "It looked familiar to me, but I couldn't quite place it until I read that." She nodded at the datapad in Iella's hand. "Neftali has a few notable native animal species, but the most famous is the d'oemir peak bear. White fur, very intelligent, it's been hunted to near extinction. It's known for being extremely protective of its young and for being surprisingly social for a bear species."

Iella understood. "The mask resembled a d'oemir bear?"

Mara nodded. "Yes. Stylized fur, similar eye structure, the jawline was also stylized but still reminiscent. I did some memory enhancement techniques and I'm sure the resemblance was intentional."

"So you think there's a connection to this Ranik Solusar," Iella mused. "Well, let's try something." She stood up and moved over to one of the secure terminals she kept in her apartment—her safehouse, she quietly admitted to herself—and put some information into the terminal. "The database said that Vader reported him dead—do you think he's still alive and that was him in the armor?"

"No," Mara said with certainty. "No, his statue in the Emper—in Palpatine's Jedi museum was faceless. I think that was Palpatine's way of announcing that Vader had killed him." She paused, considering, before continuing thoughtfully. "No, I was thinking about the boy. The Force can be unclear and frustrating but it's also purposeful; it has a reason for showing us what it does, even if we don't know what that reason is." She grimaced. "It tried to warn me during the fight that I shouldn't strike him directly, but I didn't understand that until afterwards."

Iella glanced at her, hearing the self-reproachment in Mara's voice. The computer beeped and she looked back at the screen. "Come here," she said, her tone suddenly hushed with astonishment.

Mara leaned over her shoulder, reading the same information that Iella had already seen. "Yes," she said softly, distantly. "Yes, that's him."

"Kam Solusar," Iella read. "I'm a little surprised he didn't change his name. It says he was part of the Imperial Inquisitorius." She glanced back at Mara, saw a thoughtful and slightly perplexed expression on the other woman's face. "Even now we don't know a lot about the Inquisitors," Iella added. "They were secretive to the extreme, worked only in small cells, and seemed largely autonomous in the Imperial command structure. We're not even sure if they reported to ISB or the Emperor himself. There were long rumors that at least some of them were Force adepts, though."

The former Emperor's Hand's gaze had grown distant, and Iella could almost see her thinking back, considering her old experiences. "I never interacted with them," Mara said. "Perhaps Palpatine kept us separate on purpose, I don't know."

"He may not have wanted to give his Force-strong agents the opportunity to conspire together against him," Iella pointed out. She turned back to the information on Solusar. "There really isn't much that's valuable here, just a name and brief history. He was reported operating on half a dozen different planets in the Rebellion years, but after Endor there's nothing at all. Like most of the Inquisitors, he just vanished."

"That's him," Mara said with certainty. "It makes sense. The vision was of father and son, training in the Force." Her voice faded. "He could have killed me," she admitted softly. "He didn't."

"What do you think that means?" Iella asked cautiously.

"I don't know," said Mara. She reached down to her belt and drew Ranik Solusar's lightsaber, staring at the Jedi's weapon. "I don't know."

* * *

The Tevas-kaar examined his armor with a frown. The armor was degraded where the Jedi's lightsaber had struck it, the protection at the elbow worn slightly away. The Saarai-kaar had warned him not to rely on the armor, that not every lightsaber used the technology susceptible to overloads on contact with cortosis, but the risk had been minor and it had paid dividends. He'd won Vorru and Eliezer's escape. His oaths, and the oaths of his order, indebted him to that much.

 _Lefler's Rose_ was finally escaping Coruscant, Eliezer's magic getting them clearance to leave despite the continuing high alert. The Tevas-kaar wouldn't be sad to feel Coruscant, with its confusing mess of emotions and dangers, be left behind. Hopefully that would be the last of the tasks he owed Vorru, but he knew better than to expect it was. Besides, they'd be returning to Linuri now, to Tavira, and that was little better.

He closed his eyes as he removed his mask, placing it down on the bed beside him. He was tired, and he couldn't shake the feeling that something was _wrong._ But so much had been wrong, for so long, that the sensation was more familiar than unfamiliar; it had become part of the constant rhythm of his life. Ever since the man in the black armor had driven a red lightsaber through his master's chest, ever since he had failed to get away, too frozen by horror and anger and torment, something had _always_ been wrong. There was just nothing he could ever do about it.

It was different, at that moment. It wasn't just wrongness he felt. There was anticipation, too.

But anticipation of _what?_


	22. Chapter Twenty-One

Bel Iblis reviewed the datapad that Sena Midanyl handed him slowly. The state of the fleet was better than he'd dared hope. " _Innasval_ reports they're ready for combat?" he asked, turning towards his aide in the swivel-command chair at the center of _Orthavan's_ bridge.

Midanyl nodded, taking the datapad back. "It seems the damage wasn't as bad as it first appeared. Their shields are back to full operational capacity. They've still got some problems with a few of their starboard guns, but on the whole they're ready for a fight again."

He leaned back in his command chair, his hands resting comfortably on his lap. "Good. Then we just need to wait for the right moment to make our move. We've been out of contact with Coruscant for a while now, but my last conversation with Intelligence made it clear that they were sending us help, though they were short on the details."

"Hopefully whatever they send can help us address Ukio's planetary shields," Midanyl said. "We can destroy the Imperial fleet, but if we have to bombard the planet to breach them we'll do a lot of damage on the ground."

"Have faith, Sena," Bel Iblis said calmly. "The solution will present itself, we just need to keep moving forward. In the meantime, we're going to need to detach some ships to go freighter hunting. It's been a while since we caught anything here."

"Not an easy ask," she cautioned. "We only have one Interdictor _,_ so we'll need to catch them between hyperspace jumps."

"True," Bel Iblis agreed. "But that also limits the number of places we'll be able to patrol, so we won't need that many ships." He gestured at the combat board, the circular display listing all the ships they had in the formation. "We can dispatch _Ession Strike_ and see if she can pin down any new routes the Imperials are using to get supplies to Ukio. I'll send a message back to Coruscant asking for another Interdictor to cut off alternate routes; if we actually get one then we'll be able to expand the blockade, and if we don't maybe the communication will be intercepted and the Empire will curtail its operations anyway."

"I wouldn't expect we would get another Interdictor," Midanyl said with a frown. "The New Republic doesn't have that many."

"True," Bel Iblis muttered. "But there's no harm in asking. The more we do, the more incentivized fleet command will be to prioritize building more of them."

Midanyl sniffed dismissively. "You hope."

The operations board blinked, and an alarm sounded on the other side of the bridge. "Contact!" called the Mon Calamari manning the scanning station. "We've got a new vessel in our interdiction field, it looks like an Action IV medium freighter."

"Scramble the duty squadrons and have the CAP intercept them," Bel Iblis ordered, "and send the standard notification. Contact Major Page and inform him to cancel his afternoon combat drill and prepare a boarding party just in case we require one."

Midanyl was leaning in for a closer look at the board. "We should get their IFF any moment now," she murmured, then frowned. "That's odd. They're not running one." She turned towards Karrde and gave him a mildly annoyed look. "I suppose they could be Imperials trying to slip past us."

"If they are it's not a very clever ploy," Bel Iblis replied. "I doubt the Empire would be so stupid to think that would work. But if they're not Imperials, who are they?"

Midanyl pointed at the blinking comm button on his armrest. "Why don't we find out?"

Bel Iblis pressed the button, activating his comm. "This is General Garm Bel Iblis of the New Republic, commanding the Star Cruiser _Orthavan._ State your identity and purpose for being here."

"Ah, General," Talon Karrde's smooth voice emerged from the bridge speakers. "It's good to hear your voice. This is Talon Karrde, representing the Smugglers' Alliance."

On the other side of the bridge, Captain Irraerl's expression darkened and she turned away, looking annoyed. Bel Iblis made a mental note to talk with her later; many Mon Calamari were not at all happy at the new arrangement between the New Republic and Karrde's smuggling coalition, but it was done and they'd just have to get over it. "Karrde. What brings you out to this part of space? I don't suppose you're here to partake in the flourishing Hishyim trade in Sonoa diamonds."

"Perhaps while I'm here," Karrde said without missing a beat, "I will take a look and see what's worth shipping to the core. But no, that is not why I'm here. With your permission, General, I'd like to dock the _Wild Karrde_ with _Orthavan_. Why, we should discuss in person."

Bel Iblis looked over at Irraerl. His Mon Calamari flag captain did not look thrilled about it, but she wouldn't object to it either. "See to it, Captain," he ordered. "Karrde, I take it you're attempting to keep a low profile?"

"That's right," Karrde confirmed. "At the request of General Cracken, if you believe it."

Bel Iblis and Midanyl shared a look. "You're the reinforcements I was told to expect?" he said skeptically.

"Again, General, I would prefer to discuss that in person."

"Very well," Bel Iblis agreed. "I'll await your arrival." He gestured at his officers. "Captain Irraerl, prepare us the briefing room nearest to the hangar, and clear all nonessential personnel. Captain Karrde intends to keep a low profile, and I will respect that desire." Then he turned to Midanyl. "Time to see what the new Smugglers' Alliance has to offer the New Republic."

* * *

Luke was waiting in the corridor outside _Orthavan's_ hangar in his old New Republic flightsuit (minus any rank insignia), the humid air and smells of dozens of different sentients pulling him years into the past, to combat drills and urgent launches. Two fresh-faced commandos with Page's unit insignia were pretending not to sneak glances in his direction while they guarded the briefing room a few meters away. Behind him in the hangar were the sounds of cargo being unloaded. Next to him Artoo whistled, his head spinning, looking for a data port.

"Luke!"

He turned towards the familiar voice, grinning, and Wedge caught him in a hug. Laughing, Luke returned it. "It hasn't been that long since I saw you, Wedge. We had that shindig on Coruscant after you got back from Ciutric."

"Yeah, well, it's still good to see you. And hey, Artoo."

Luke's astromech whistled a cheerful hello, then rolled down the hall towards the two commandos. The droid beeped at them, then attempted to roll forward into the room.

"It's okay," Wedge called. "You can let him in on my authorization. Artoo isn't a security risk; he's probably seen more combat than both of you put together."

The commandos stepped back and Artoo blatted at them before vanishing into the conference room. "He's probably looking for some way to talk to the ship," Luke laughed. "Apparently the _Wild Karrde_ isn't much of a conversationalist. I'd imagine that is Karrde's doing, probably made his ship's personality suit his preference for tight control over information."

"Probably," Wedge laughed, slinging his arm around Luke's shoulders. "It took you longer to get here than I expected. I figured you would have shown up a week ago. You missed our last engagement."

"If I'd just gotten in my X-wing instead of riding with Karrde, I would have been here sooner," Luke conceded. "But I don't think you'll be unhappy when you learn what we've brought."

"Is that so?" Wedge lifted an eyebrow curiously, then shrugged. "All right. I look forward to getting a look at it, then."

"Actually it's what you're not going to see you'll find most interesting, I think."

Wedge frowned at him sideways. "Is this a Jedi riddle?"

Luke laughed. "Maybe." He knocked his shoulder against Wedge's. "How's Iella?"

"I haven't heard from her since before Hishyim," Wedge said with a deepening frown. "She said she was doing some intelligence work. It's hard to make contact right now, what with the HoloNet being compromised and all."

"I know, I heard," Luke said. "Iella can take care of herself. And you've heard Cracken's assigning her a new job, once her current one is finished?"

Wedge turned towards him in surprise. "No, I haven't heard that. A new job?"

Luke started to answer, but was interrupted by footsteps down the corridor. He and Wedge broke apart as General Bel Iblis and Sena Midanyl walked towards them. The two commandos guarding the conference room both straightened to full attention. As did Wedge. Luke maintained a studied parade rest with a smile "General Antilles, General Skywalker," Bel Iblis greeted them.

"Just Citizen Skywalker now, General," Luke replied mildly.

"What brings you here, Citizen Skywalker?" asked Midanyl curiously. She held a datapad comfortably in her hand, flanking the taller Bel Iblis like a fully-loaded gunship ready to lend support.

"I asked him to come," said Wedge. "Before the communications blackout. My Rogues have been flying without a full complement of pilots, and I thought we could use one more."

Bel Iblis' eyebrows both rose. "Are you reactivating your commission, Jedi Skywalker?"

"Ah, no," Luke said, looking vaguely embarrassed. "I'm here as a volunteer combatant on detached service, as a favor to a friend."

"I suppose we can overlook the lack of protocol," Bel Iblis said, his mouth forming into an amused smile under his mustache. "Especially because the bucketheads won't know I have you on strength. Now, what is this that Talon Karrde claims to have brought on behalf of New Republic Intelligence?"

Luke grinned. "I think I'll let him tell you that, General. It is his gift, after all." He nudged Wedge. "Trust me, it'll be worth it."

"Indeed it will," said a new voice from the door to the hangar. Talon Karrde stood there, looking very pleased with himself. "General Bel Iblis, an honor. And Miss Midanyl, I don't believe we've met. My congratulations on the birth of your new grandchild."

Midanyl's expression twitched with surprise, then narrowed. "Showing off the extent of your intelligence network, Karrde?"

Karrde smiled. "I do make a point of knowing the people I work with. Please, come with me." He turned and walked back into the hangar.

Wedge leaned towards Luke. "What's all this about?"

"You'll see."

The quartet followed behind Karrde. The _Wild Karrde's_ aft cargo bay doors were open, and a large crate had been ushered out of the ship. Luke's X-wing was being brought out next, Dankin and Chin working to bring the fighter out so that one of the hangar's cranes could attach to it.

"General Cracken informed me that he would be sending us reinforcements, but he was vague on the details," Bel Iblis was saying, increasing his pace to catch up with Karrde. "Jedi Skywalker is a nice addition to our forces, but I don't suppose you have another Star Cruiser in there."

"I'm afraid not," Karrde said. He waved for Chin, who jogged over and the two men opened the metallic shipping container.

The assembled audience circled the box to look inside. It was a large piece of equipment, but from their expressions neither Wedge nor Bel Iblis immediately recognized it.

Sena Midanyl, by contrast, clearly did. She stopped dead, staring at it, then stared at Karrde. "Does it work?"

"Oh yes," Karrde confirmed. "We tested it on the way. It is an early prototype constructed shortly after the Empire secured the schematics from Wayland, and it doesn't have an effective radius sufficient to cover an entire capital ship, I'm afraid. But there are other uses that may actually prove more effective in this case."

Bel Iblis shook his head, then turned toward Midanyl. "Would one of you care to let me in on the secret?"

"Allow me," Karrde said. He reached to the control panel on the side of the box and pressed a few buttons.

The device shimmered for a moment, and then vanished.

Bel Iblis and Wedge stared at the sudden absence. Luke grinned and nudged Wedge's arm again. "I _told_ you."

Wedge stared at the empty box, then turned and glared at him. "You can't just come fly with us for a while, you always have to be dramatic."

"One working prototype cloaking device," Karrde said with satisfaction. "Courtesy of the Smugglers' Alliance, with Jedi Skywalker's aid of course. Consider it our gift to the New Republic." He smiled. "We can extend the radius of the cloaking effect out to as large as forty meters. General Cracken believes that the newest Imperial cloaks can do significantly better, and may even be able to cover an entire Star Destroyer. But for Ukio, this should be good enough."

Luke could see the wheels turning behind Bel Iblis and Wedge's eyes. The two Generals turned towards one another. "Sluis Van," Bel Iblis said.

Wedge nodded in excited agreement. "We'll need a freighter. Something that can pass through Imperial security."

Chin handed Karrde a datapad, and Karrde handed it to Bel Iblis. "This is from General Cracken," he said. "It's an up-to-date identification code for a Star Galleon that will be recognized by Ukio's computers _._ And, I should add, that if you don't have one of those available, I've made a call. Surreptitiously, of course. Aves should be here with the _Last Resort_ in a few days, depending on how long it takes my courier to track him down. I didn't want to risk the HoloNet."

Wedge nodded again. "It'll work." He grinned at Bel Iblis, then turned to Karrde. "As long as they don't know we have the cloak?"

Karrde gestured to Luke. "Skywalker and I staged the theft a few days ago, from a semi-covert Imperial research facility in the Rendili system. This prototype cloaking device was constructed early in their development cycle, but ended up being pushed into storage when Thrawn requested some small design changes. It's been sitting in storage ever since."

"They could realize it's missing," Luke added. "Someone could come across its absence at any time. But they shouldn't be able to easily trace it back to us, and there's a better chance that they don't realize it's missing for a while yet."

"Even still, we shouldn't wait," Bel Iblis mused. "We can begin working up a battle plan immediately, and implement it as soon as we have an operational Galleon." He nodded at Wedge. "Take the rest of today to rest and catch up, then tomorrow I want you and Captain Tabanne scouring the hyperspace bypasses to Ukio. You may not find anything, but if you do we might be able to shave a day or two off our timetable. I'm also going to prepare some recon flights on Ukio and make sure our intelligence is absolutely up to date." He turned to Karrde. "It seems we owe you a debt."

"Hardly," Karrde said. "I'm merely being neighborly."

Bel Iblis snorted. "Whatever you say."

"I also don't intend to stick around for very long," added Karrde. "I'd rather not let anyone find out I was here; that might make it easier for the Imperials to realize where their cloaking device ended up. I'll be taking the _Wild Karrde_ on a quick run to Rishi, then heading back to Coruscant to resume work on the Smugglers' Alliance." He nodded at Luke. "I'll miss having a Force-user on my ship, I think."

Luke smiled. "I'd say you're good enough to work well without, Talon."

"Oh, I disagree. But I suppose that may simply be because I've long had the luxury of having one on loan." He smiled. "Please, do take Ukio back, if you would. I'm looking forward to being able to give Gillespee the deed to his land back the next time I see him."

"We will," said Bel Iblis grimly. "You can count on it."

* * *

Wedge was positively giddy. The Rogues had assembled—with some annoyed grumbling—in _Orthavan's_ primary briefing room, a large circular area which was quite akin to the same space aboard Admiral Ackbar's _Home One._ They sat, talking to one another; Tycho had an expression which suggested he had an inkling of what Wedge was up to, but the others seemed entirely baffled and uncertain.

"Aten-SHUN!" Wedge barked as he entered the room, and laughed inwardly as they all scrambled to their feet in surprise and snapped to order. He glowered at them. "As you were," he said after a moment and they all sat, looking at each other in confusion. "As you know," Wedge continued, "Rogue Squadron has been understrength for some time now. We have been lucky enough to persuade Her Beneficent Majesty to rejoin us," he nodded at Plourr, who looked thoroughly unimpressed, "but poor Major Klivian remains without a wingman." He gestured flamboyantly at the door behind him. "So, with that in mind…"

Luke swept into the room, looking both embarrassed and amused. The dead silence betrayed a sudden, bated excitement as the Rogues who had served under Luke when he'd been Rogue Leader—Hobbie, Wes, Tycho, and Nrin—gasped in surprise (especially Hobbie, whose sudden, uncharacteristic excitement bordered on giddy). The younger Rogues took a second longer, but they'd all met Luke at one Rogue Squadron function or another.

"Greetings to old friends and new faces," Luke said cheerfully. "I'm very proud to be flying with the Rogues again. Wedge reached out and suggested that there were certain things that I might be able to help deal with." The excitement stilled a bit; they had all heard the story of the Force-adept who had confronted Corran, Nrin, and Myn at Cracken's prison. "For the purposes of rank and communication, I'll be flying as Rogue Three, paired with Major Klivian, with the effective rank of Lieutenant. Outside the cockpit, I'll be ignoring all orders from Major Janson unless otherwise directed by General Antilles or Colonel Celchu."

"We thought about making him Rogue Leader and giving me back Rogue Three," Wedge put in. "That's the designation I used at Hoth. But for some reason Skywalker seems averse to taking back his old rank."

Hobbie's jaw had gone slack. The long-time Rogue glanced around at his squadron mates and stood slowly. He mock-counted each of his prosthetic limbs slowly, then ambled down the round stadium seating to put his hand on Luke's shoulder. "Listen here, young Skywalker. I'll only tell you this once. I want to end my tenure as your wingmate with exactly as many limbs as I have now. If I'm short one, I'm taking your hand as an incentive to do better." He nodded seriously. "But stick with me, I'll show you the ropes."

Wedge snickered. Luke, struggling not to laugh, merely inclined his head with hard-won grace. "I bow before your decades of superior skill and experience, Master Klivian. Teach me your mysterious ways."

For once, Wes Janson was struck silent as Hobbie grinned and danced over to Wes's seat with an off-key, repeated taunt of "Luke likes me bet-ter, Luke likes me bet-ter." Wes sputtered like an exhausted shield buffer, and his expression was one Wedge was quite sure he'd never forget.

* * *

The forward lounge on _Ession Strike_ was more comfortable than Luke expected. Through the window were the spiraling lights characteristic of hyperspace, casting the room in dim hues. He found a seat and relaxed into it, propping his feet up.

"Been a while since we were on assignment together," Wedge chuckled, taking the chair next to him and sliding a tumbler and a bottle across. Luke poured some Whyren's and handed the bottle back; Wedge filled his own and popped the cork back in, then set the bottle down between them. "Years. Regretting stepping off the flightline?"

Luke watched the lights spiral. "Yeah," he replied, sipping his drink and feeling the burn, "Some days. Then some nights I see everyone I ever flew with who didn't make it back, all those narrow escapes, and I don't miss it so much." He leaned back in his chair. "Any updates on that Force-adept Corran ran into?"

"No," Wedge said. " _Invidious_ is still at Linuri, or it was just a couple days ago when we ran our last recon flight."

Luke nodded. His meditations persisted in showing him the teacher and the student, but there had been one night he'd seen Mara instead. Confident, composed, a bright light in a dark room. It was a fleeting glimpse only; he'd forced himself to avoid clinging to the image.

He was in trouble.

"Well," he said. "You're going to go after Tavira sooner or later, I assume?"

Wedge nodded. "As soon as Ukio is secured, she'll become our top priority. A Star Destroyer is a hard thing to hide and Tavira is dangerous, especially now." He took a sip of his Whyren's, turning slightly to face Luke, still reclined in the chair. "What'd you mean about Iella earlier?"

"Talon Karrde has requested her services. He wants her to serve as the New Republic's liaison to the Smugglers' Alliance." Luke cradled his glass, watching through the window, shadows moving in the room. "She's going to be partnered with Mara."

Luke could feel Wedge's eyes on him. "Iella would be good at that," he said finally. "And I bet it's safer than some of the jobs she's been doing. I don't want to think about how she got all the intel on Hishyim and Ukio for us." He took a longer sip, then fetched the bottle to refill his glass. "When this operation is over I'm going to take some leave, see if Iella can too," he said.

"When was the last time you took leave?" Luke asked.

"Never," Wedge muttered. "Well, that's not quite true. But not often."

How many years had it been since Yavin? Ten? And Wedge had been deployed almost continuously for all that time? Luke could remember how exhausted he was when he finally turned in his commission and started exploring the heritage of the Jedi full time, and he'd only been a General for six months.

Now that he thought about it, Wedge had been only a General for about six months. "What are you planning to do?"

Wedge shrugged. "I was thinking of going home. Back to Corellia, I mean. With the lackadaisical way CorSec is being run, Iella and I could slip past the Diktat's security and spend some time in Coronet, or… I don't know." He sighed. "I've been back to Corellia only a few times, and always on mission. I want to—" he groped for words, sounding weary "—just, go home for a while." He shifted. "But it's not like the New Republic is going to be displacing the Empire from Corellia any time soon. Their hold there is as tight as it is anywhere in the galaxy."

"You should take some time," Luke said. He chuckled softly. "Even I miss Tatooine sometimes."

"The way Gavin talks about it you'd think it's a paradise, all the womp rats you can shoot." Wedge laughed. He took a sip of his drink, watching Luke. When he spoke again, his voice was speculative and just a bit teasing. "So, how is Mara?"

Luke flushed. "Am I that obvious?"

"Do you want an honest answer?" Wedge chuckled softly. "We were kids when we met, Luke. Kids with dead families and cut-off childhoods who were asked to do the impossible. And worst of all we succeeded and lived to tell about it. You even got a medal. And then we were asked to fight the Empire with a fleet made of spite, spit and spacetape and stuffed into quarters the size of a closet together for months at a time. I probably know you better than anyone else alive except your secretly hidden twin sister, who I might add you also had a—"

Luke cut him off with a mock glare. "Yeah." He smiled despite himself. "At this point I'd say you're basically family. Just," Luke sighed, "family who keeps getting posted away."

The mask of command had completely left Wedge's face. "I tell you I've been taking correspondence courses for architecture?"

Luke shook his head.

"Tycho knows, I asked him for some holos of Alderaanian buildings for a class assignment, but it's something that I can put a little of myself into that doesn't involve planning to kill people, killing people, and writing letters to the bereaved. Maybe something I can do for the long term. With Iella. You know, build things instead of just blowing them up." He paused, stared at through the viewport at the starscape beyond, and caught himself before donning a more cocksure expression and awaiting ribbing for something that clearly meant the world to him.

"That's good, Wedge. I'm actually a bit jealous you have that destination to aim for," Luke said, remembered half-done flimsi sketches on the walls of their quarters, "I'm still figuring out what the whole 'Jedi' thing means, let alone how my personal life is going to pan out."

Wedge smirked. "So? How is Mara?"

Luke flushed again, and Wedge snorted. "Oh, stop that," Luke laughed, smacking Wedge's shoulder, which caused Wedge to spill a bit of his drink and laugh some more. "She's fine."

"Luke, you brought her to the celebration after Thrawn's death," Wedge said, snickering. "If you were planning on being discreet you should have come alone and commiserated with the other Rogue bachelors. Instead you spent practically the entire evening secured to her arm." He smirked. "You're just lucky that Janson was on his best behavior."

"Not lucky," Luke muttered. "Mara took a few minutes to explain her favorite interrogation techniques with her heel on his instep."

Wedge sputtered with laughter.

"She's very… Mara," said Luke after Wedge's laughter had finally died down. He fought to find other words, but using words like _luminous_ and _inspiring_ would just elicit more teasing.

Wedge took a deep breath and nodded, as if that was all he needed to hear. "She'll look after Iella, right?" His tone suddenly carried in it a hint of worry.

Luke reached over and squeezed Wedge's shoulder. "I have absolutely no doubts whatsoever that Mara and Iella can look after themselves," he said with certainty. "They're probably the two most competent people in the whole galaxy." He paused. "Well, along with Leia," he added.

"It's a good thing that we're the two best pilots in the galaxy or we might really feel inadequate here," said Wedge after a moment, but his tone didn't quite match the bravado of the words.

Luke smiled, remembering years now past, with him and Wedge and the rest of the first Rogues crammed into the barracks on Hoth, boasting confidently to hide their fears. "Yeah," he said. "It is."


	23. Chapter Twenty-Two

Teren Rogriss’s office was sullenly quiet as he perused the final reports after Bel Iblis’ raid on Ukio. _Agonizer_ remained a heavily damaged wreck badly in need of repairs, though Captain Tigan and his crew had labored heroically to get the Star Destroyer back into something resembling fighting shape. Suwen Station was a complete loss, but most of the facility’s crew and some of its final Tibanna gas shipments had been salvageable, which meant that for now he’d have no issues with ensuring that Ukio’s garrison could fight ably against a similarly-capable Republican force.

But his quiet fury at Moff Disra’s flagrant disregard of his command, and refusal to order the Linuri repair yards to expedite its work on _Invidious_ so it could repair _Agonizer_ , still smoldered. He wouldn’t let it show, of course—every Imperial fleet officer knew never to let an Imperial Moff _know_ you hated them—but that didn’t make it any less real.

He’d been ordered to hold a system that the Empire no longer needed, to sacrifice men and material that could be used elsewhere to better effect, all just to spite the New Republic. He had sworn an oath, and his personal honor demanded that he keep that oath—for his honor, for the Empire’s honor, for his children’s honor—but that did not mean he was not blind to the utter futility of his orders.

The bottle of whiskey he had in the bottom drawer of his desk beckoned. Gilad was on duty. What harm would a little—

His intercom buzzed and he pressed it with a sigh. “Rogriss.”

“Pellaeon here, sir,” Captain Pellaeon’s brisk, sober voice brought him back to attention, “Moff Disra is on the holocomm and wishes to speak with you. He says it’s urgent.”

Rogriss scowled, then smoothed his expression into one of brisk professionalism, a mask he’d first put on as a cadet and which had served him very well in the decades since. “Send the message to my station.”

Moff Disra’s decrepit, wrinkled face peered at him. Disra wasn’t that old, not that much older than Rogriss, but he had a prematurely aged face with frown lines permanently etched throughout. “Admiral Rogriss,” the Moff greeted him. There was something different about Disra’s expression this time, Rogriss thought. Something hawkish and anticipatory. Something gloating.

“What can I do for you, Moff Disra?” he replied formally, keeping his back parade-formation straight.

“I have an opportunity for you, Admiral,” Disra replied, and Rogriss could _definitely_ see the anticipation and gloating now. Whatever it was Disra had to tell him, the man was very happy about it. “I have managed to procure a piece of useful intelligence about the fleet movements of General Bel Iblis. I’m sending you full data about his ships and their current readiness as of four hours ago.”

Rogriss’ back straightened even more. _What?_ “Sir?” he asked, hearing the confusion in his own voice.

Disra’s pretense of professionalism lapsed entirely, leaving behind ambition and self-congratulation. “I have a new intelligence asset,” the Moff smirked. “More than that, I cannot divulge, even to one of your status, I am afraid. In the information I am sending you, you’ll see I’ve highlighted one of Bel Iblis’ ships—a Corellian corvette which appears to be hunting your remaining logistics vessels. I want you to destroy it.”

His terminal beeped. Distracted and slightly confused, Rogriss looked at the information. Sure enough, there it was—Bel Iblis’ entire fleet, with precise locations and surprising detail on things like ship status and readiness. There were ships he hadn’t known Bel Iblis had, too, including a cruiser-carrier. He skimmed through the data, looking for the ship Disra referenced, and found it. _Ession Strike,_ the same corvette which had set up the ambush at Hishyim and slashed through his freighters during Bel Iblis’ raid on Ukio. It wasn’t that far away, prowling the less-well-traveled hyperlanes to Ukio, no doubt hunting the handful of Imperial freighters still trying to break the Republican blockade.

“Admiral?” Disra’s voice brought Rogriss out of his examination of the information.

“I’m sorry, sir. This information is quite detailed. Will this kind of data be arriving regularly in the future?” If it was _,_ Rogriss had a chance to defeat Bel Iblis and prevent Ukio from falling back into Republican hands. The entire operation might actually be _worth_ something.

“It may be,” Disra replied noncommittally. “I’m still making sure the source is secure. How soon before you can move on this information?”

Rogriss was already pulling up his terminal to re-assign the vessels he would need. His relative lack of TIE fighters was a problem, and the fact that Linuri had informed him that reinforcements would be delayed compounded that problem. There were ways to resolve the issue temporarily, but it would mean leaving Ukio nearly bare… “I’ll have _Chimaera_ moving in thirty minutes,” he replied. “Was there anything else?”

Disra smiled ghoulishly. “No, that will be all for now, Admiral. Good hunting.” The terminal reverted back to the Imperial crest.

Rogriss pressed his intercom. “Captain Pellaeon, prepare _Chimaera, Death’s Head,_ and _Stellar Web_ for immediate hyperspace jumps. I’m forwarding the coordinates to you now. I’m also going to need all of Ukio’s ground-based TIE squadrons moved to our ships; you can assure our ground commanders that the move is temporary only. Inform Captain Brandei that he will be in command of the Ukio fleet until our return.”

“Sir?”

“I’ll explain when I arrive, Captain,” Rogriss said, pushing himself to his feet. “I believe we have an opportunity to score our first real victory of this campaign, and I do not intend to miss it.”

* * *

Luke couldn’t sleep.

This happened sometimes; there were nights his mind was too active, or the Force swirled with too much energy, for him to easily rest. On Dagobah Yoda had occasionally talked to him about the voice of the living Force, and told him that once he learned to listen, to really _listen,_ he would also have to learn how not to.

But one of the solutions was meditation and hyperspace wasn’t all that conducive to meditation, which was an art best performed surrounded by life. _Ession Strike_ had life aboard, but nothing like Dagobah or Coruscant or even Tatooine. It didn’t help that his pilot’s quarters reminded him of the days after Yavin, dodging from base to base and crammed in cramped spaces. Luke half expected the Empire to be waiting for them at their next hyperspace destination with a Star Destroyer or two.

It was odd, being back in uniform. It’d been years since Luke had resigned his Generalship and taken up the role of Jedi full-time. There was something oddly reassuring about wearing his orange flightsuit as a member of a fighter squadron again. As a Rogue again. It was a simpler job—though simpler did not mean _easier_ , forbid Wedge _ever_ heard him say that—one without the ambiguities of the nascent Jedi order. Allegiances were clear and unambiguous, responsibilities were given… point your X-wing at the enemy, charge your laser cannons, and just _fly_.

He didn’t even have any of the demands of leadership. Wedge was the General now. Luke really could just fly.

But for all the certainty being back with the Rogues offered, Luke still couldn’t sleep. He considered putting himself into a hibernation trance, but he dismissed the thought almost out of hand. He _could_ do that, but it would be a crutch, something to allow him to avoid dealing with whatever it was that was actually bothering him.

He sighed and pushed the sheets back, sliding out of the compact bunk. It was a short walk and climb down to the starboard hanger where his and Hobbie’s X-wings sat, prepared to launch. When he’d been a kid, not being able to sleep had never been an issue; waking early to make sure the vaporators captured all the predawn moisture had been a frequent task. But when he’d been longing to escape, or fighting nerves over some teenager drama, he usually found some mechanical task, something to do with his hands. Working on his speeder, or the skyhopper, or one of the droids. It didn’t really matter what.

He found himself working on his X-wing. About a half-hour into recalibrating the snubfighter’s laser cannons to make sure they were properly zeroed, Artoo rolled past and whistled a surprised greeting.

“Good evening, Artoo,” he replied, waving his micrometer at the droid. Artoo blatted rudely at him in reply, and he laughed. “Yes, I know what time it is… I got some sleep, but not very much. I decided to come down and work in the hope that it’d clear my mind.”

The astromech examined him, then warbled a reluctant assent, followed by a question. With a chuckle, Luke fetched one of the cranes and helped wench the droid back into his socket. The X-wing hummed as Artoo booted up its main computer and started a full systems diagnostic.

“Make sure to check that the laser cannons are properly calibrated,” Luke asked.

Artoo made a dismissive sound, one that Luke knew meant that he should stop being a nag and let his faithful droid do his job. He smiled, putting his tools back in their case, and then the case back in the X-wing’s small cargo compartment.

The sound of feet on the ladder down into the hangar, followed by those feet on the metal deck, drew Luke’s attention away from his trusty X-wing. Corran Horn was standing there, his own lightsaber hanging from his belt, a slightly tired, slightly amused expression on his face. “You couldn’t sleep either?” the Corellian asked.

Luke shrugged. “I guess not. It’s been a while since I’ve traveled in pilot quarters, and these are even more cramped than what the Rogues had on _Flurry_ years ago.”

Corran was slightly shorter than Luke, well-sized for an X-wing cockpit. He, like Luke, was Force sensitive; like Luke he had a Jedi heritage, as Corran’s grandfather, Nejaa Halcyon, had been a member of the order during the Clone Wars and killed before Palpatine’s purges began. His grandfather’s lightsaber hung from Corran’s belt. Luke thought of Anakin’s blade and wondered if it was keeping Mara safe.

“I’m used to that by now, though I think we would all be happy to move back to _Orthavan_ ,” Corran said dryly. He slid one of the sets of step-ladders over and sat on them. “I even considered trying that hibernation trance that was described in the teaching materials you sent me.”

“It’s not a good idea to try that one alone,” Luke said, frowning. “If you don’t prepare the wake conditions properly you can end up sleeping for days, and it’s not easy for others to rouse you out of it.”

“Just as well I didn’t, then,” Corran replied with a grimace.

Luke sat back, brushing his hands off over the pants of his Jedi black slacks. He’d tried to convince Corran to do some training as a Jedi in the past, with only limited success; Corran had been too committed to the Rogues and Luke got the feeling that the Corellian wasn’t quite sure that being a Jedi was what he really wanted for his future. Just the same, Luke didn’t know that many Force sensitives, and after Mara (and perhaps Leia, although all the complications involved with that possibility made Luke grimace), Corran seemed to be the most likely candidate to be a future member of his Jedi Order.

“Can I ask you a question?” Luke asked.

Corran shrugged. “Sure.”

“You were a Corellian Security officer,” Luke said. “You were Iella’s partner while she was there. When we worked together, she talked about what you did—hunting down criminals, investigating crimes, bringing justice whenever and however you could, given the Imperial hold over Corellia.” Luke leaned back, pausing as he formulated the question in his head. “CorSec is a law enforcement institution,” he settled on observing. “Is that what the new Jedi order ought to be also?”

Corran’s bushy eyebrows both lifted in surprise. “You’re asking _me_ what I think the new Jedi order should be about?” His expression narrowed. “Are you leading up to asking me to join it?”

Luke shook his head. “No. Well, at least not directly. I’ve spent the last year in discussions with members of the New Republic council, my sister, representatives of foreign governments, all who have a vested interest in the rebirth of the Jedi order. But they all have wildly different ideas about what the Jedi order should be. Some want us to be advisors to politicians, others arbitrators of disputes, or dispensers of justice, or—” he grimaced “—warriors. Those who remember the Jedi before Palpatine destroyed them don’t agree about what they stood for, other than vague concepts of justice and goodness which sound good but ultimately are slogans, not practices.”

“And you’re trying to think about practices,” Corran said thoughtfully. “My father knew he was a Jedi’s son,” he said after a moment. “He didn’t tell me, no doubt to help keep me safe, but I know from the records back on Coruscant that he received at least rudimentary training when he was young. I wish he was here to tell us about why he made the choices he did after Palpatine’s purges, but he chose CorSec. I assume he did because it allowed him to get closest to upholding his values.” He shook his head. “But, Luke, I don’t know if that was because those values were Jedi values, or if they were just my father’s values.”

Luke sighed and nodded. “So much has been lost. The Emperor destroyed almost everything, and much of what there is that remains he deliberately corrupted. When I do find something, I never know if it is what Yoda and Ben would have wanted. And everyone who still lives seems to have some interest in shaping the Jedi so they can use us for their own ends.”

“Including the New Republic?”

Luke was silent. He could feel Corran watching him, those trained CorSec interrogator’s eyes judging how best to proceed. But that was all right. Maybe Corran would help find answers. Although even that might be a bit more than he could reasonably expect. Luke just hoped Corran could help him start finding the right questions.

“What would Yoda and Ben have wanted?” Corran asked curiously.

He thought about that. They had wanted him to fight and defeat the Emperor, to free the galaxy from the tyranny of the Empire. But beyond that… Luke found he really didn’t know. “I’m not sure. They both wanted me to pass on what they taught me, but beyond that…”

“Could they have told you?”

Luke hadn’t had much in the way of communication with Yoda since his master had passed into the Force. But Ben had occasionally been there, guiding him, for years after Endor, until that fateful dream where he had finally said goodbye. Years he could have used to give Luke instructions on the political structure of the old Jedi order. Instead, he’d used those years helping Luke confront threats to life, giving him small nudges. “Perhaps.”

“It seems to me,” Corran said slowly, “that your masters chose to leave that question for you to answer.”

Luke grimaced. Yes, he agreed silently, it did. Somehow, that only made the burden he bore even heavier. “Then I suppose that brings us back to the beginning,” he said. “If they had chosen to leave that question to _you_ instead… what would _you_ do?”

Whatever Corran’s answer would’ve been, he didn’t get a chance to give it. _Ession Strike_ bucked, a sudden, wrenching vibration shuddering through the ship’s hull, sending both Luke and Corran sprawling across the deck. The hideous scream of metal scraping against metal echoed in both of their ears, followed by Artoo’s much quieter but far more terrified electronic screech.

Luke felt his stomach drop with sudden, horrified suspicion as he and Corran both struggled back to their feet. The Force battered him with the sense of impending doom, and from the way the color had gone entirely out of Corran’s face he suspected the other man could feel it as well.

Combat alarms began to howl, and Luke kicked the stepladder over to his X-wing and started to scrabble up it into the cockpit as Corran sprinted towards his own X-wing on the other side of the hangar.

* * *

Atril didn’t bother to dress fully as she charged into _Ession Strike’s_ bridge with her fatigue jacket slung over the shoulder of her ship-knits. She glanced at the plot that the night shift crew pushed to her console, rapping out orders for information while Traks’zim tried to brief her.

“[—gravity well pulled us out of hyperspace],” her Sensors officer, who had been commanding the corvette’s night watch, was saying, sounding remarkably calm for what he was describing. “[There’s a Star Destroyer out there, as well as—]”

His voice faded into the background as Atril stared at the plot, her blood turning to ice. There was an _Interdictor_ -class cruiser out there, all right, one that was charging right at her to keep _Strike_ trapped deep within its gravity well for as long as possible. Two squadrons of TIE fighters were out there as well, but it would take at least another three minutes before they were in weapons range. And behind them, its engines running at full burn and building speed fast, was the Star Destroyer _Chimaera._

She glanced at the plot. She looked at her speed, the Star Destroyer’s speed, the Interdictor’s speed, and all three of their vectors. Asking the computer for a quick optimization, she was given the answer she expected.

 _There’s no way to get out of that Interdictor’s gravity well before_ Chimaera _is in range. And so there’s no way to keep us from spending at least four full minutes in_ Chimaera’s _teeth._ A Corellian corvette, particularly one optimized for military use, was a hardy vessel for its size, but four minutes in an _Imperial I-_ class Star Destroyer’s forward firing arc was a death sentence for anything smaller than a dreadnaught.

She refused to allow that knowledge to freeze her brain. Panic hovered at the edge of her mind but, drawing on the training she’d received at Carida and every erg of experience she’d received since leaving the Empire’s service, she forced it back. She’d deal with the consequences of the sudden ambush once there was no more good she could do. Right now there was good she could still do.

Atril thumbed the ship’s intercom. “Rogue Squadron to your fighters! Expedite launch sequence!” Then she turned to Traks’zim. “Go work up hyper calculations for the Rogues,” she ordered him. “I want every one of those X-wings to have a safe destination they can hit the moment they clear the gravity well.”

The Togorian’s catlike eyes blinked, then blinked again, this time with somber understanding. By the time she had turned away from him, he was already at work.

* * *

“Finalize tractor locks on the corvette,” barked Pellaeon, standing on _Chimaera_ ’s elevated bridge. The corvette’s crew was good, but this time they hadn’t responded with the impossible alacrity they had at Hishyim, which told him all he needed to know. _This time it’s not a double ambush. This time we have them._

The two TIE squadrons that Rogriss had managed to find to assign to _Stellar Web_ for this mission were under firm orders _not_ to engage the corvette, and instead were flying escort for _Stellar Web._ The only way the corvette could get away was if the Rogues first disabled the Interdictor. Pellaeon wouldn’t put it past them to do just that, which was why his TIEs weren’t on proper escort duty. Instead, they had one and only one assignment:

Shoot down proton torpedoes targeting _Stellar Web_.

The Rogues were already launching, in the staggered, uneven waves of pilots pulled out of their bunks and thrown into the fighters. He watched as they launched, wondering what exactly they would do.

* * *

Luke was the first Rogue into space, and he found himself alarmingly alone. There were no TIE fighters strafing _Ession Strike_ , there wasn’t even any incoming turbolaser fire from the two Imperial ships closing on them. It took him only a minute to figure out why, with Artoo’s help.

“They’re boxing _Strike_ in,” he told the droid, “and protecting their Interdictor to make sure we can’t disable it before _Chimaera_ gets its guns in range.” The sight of _Chimaera,_ so often a nemesis of theirs during the Thrawn campaign, made Artoo’s answering whistle sound quite a bit more nervous than it otherwise would’ve been before a fight.

“Rogues, this is _Strike_ ,” the corvette’s Bothan communication’s officer said over the squadron comm. His voice was weary. “We are forwarding you hyperspace calculations for a short jump rimward. From there you can make your way back to Hishyim and inform General Bel Iblis that our mission was a failure.”

“Get me Strike Actual,” Wedge’s voice said firmly, though crackling slightly with the static of Imperial jamming and older Alliance systems. Luke watched his HUD, watching the distance between them and _Chimaera_ steadily tick downwards as X-wings with tired pilots spilled out of _Strike’s_ hangars. The first blue ion blasts came from _Stellar Web_ as it closed, but the range was sufficiently long that they either missed _Ession Strike_ entirely or washed over its shields harmlessly.

There was a brief pause. “Tabanne,” Atril said, broken up by a bit of static.

“Atril, Wedge said, dropping formality, “Go full reverse and get us a flak window, and we can hit _Stellar Web_ —”

“Not viable, Wedge,” Atril’s voice came back, dully unemotional. “There’s no way for you to take out its CAP and all four of its gravity well projectors before _Chimaera_ has us in range. You’d be risking your pilots, wasting your fuel, and giving up your best chance to get out of here for nothing.” Luke could hear the agony seep into her voice. “ _Strike_ is lost either way.”

“We’re Rogue Squadron,” said Plourr’s voice, a quiet fury burning in her words, audible even over the staticky communications channel. “We don’t just run away!”

“Yes, you do,” Atril insisted raggedly, the embers of her usual passion flaring back to life. “The New Republic needs the Rogues, and they were clearly waiting for us. This was a very well-planned little ambush, and it wasn’t for _Strike_. It was for the propaganda coup they’ll get from parading you lot around. You escaping is our win condition. And I’ll make damn sure you get out of here.”

Wedge seemed to take a moment, but it was barely longer than a breath as the Imperials crawled closer. “I can’t argue with that reasoning. Atril—”

Luke could feel the pain in Wedge’s Force-sense even from here. Atril didn’t let him finish, her voice cutting in, hiding her anguish and fear almost perfectly. “Likewise Wedge. May the Force be with you.”

Luke spun his fighter towards deep space, peering up through his X-wing’s canopy. Above him, _Ession Strike_ turned suddenly, the last of the Rogues spilling into space as the corvette aimed its large hammerhead nose directly at _Stellar Web._ The corvette’s large bed of engines flared, all eleven glowing as the ship fought _Chimaera’s_ tractor beams.

“Rogues, Rogue Leader.” Wedge’s voice was totally calm, but Luke could feel a mounting, carefully-dampened fury that matched Plourr’s even from a kilometer’s distance. “You heard the Captain, invert and retreat, maximum velocity until we escape the Interdictor’s gravity well.” The twelve X-wings gathered together, Luke settling into wingman formation with Hobbie.

Artoo whistled mournfully. On his HUD, Luke watched as _Ession Strike_ started firing at _Stellar Web,_ trying to force the Interdictor to engage rather than pursue the Rogues. He’d almost forgotten _Chimaera_ before a hurricane of blue bolts poured into the corvette, the Star Destroyer’s entire array of forward ion batteries firing as one.

But the maneuver was working. X-wings were swift vessels, perhaps not as swift as TIEs or A-wings but with plenty of speed. Artoo projected a map of the combat area on his screen; the icons representing Rogue Squadron were steadily closing on the edge of the Interdictor’s gravity well. As soon as they breached it they could jump to hyperspace, and it would be a few minutes but no Imperial forces were even attempting to engage…

That was when a _second_ Star Destroyer appeared directly in front of them.

* * *

Teren Rogriss stood in the center of _Chimaera’s_ bridge, the long command walkway above the two crew pits on either side. His datapad showed every aspect of the battle, including Captain Harbid’s pre-planned arrival.

The _Death’s Head_ scythed into normal space, going through the characteristic pause as the ship’s captain and crew got their bearings. Harbid was a good commander, one Thrawn had selected for his personal Star Destroyer squadron for a reason. He was a veteran commander, like Pellaeon and Rogriss, though not as senior, and he had a long history of fighting the Rebellion. Most importantly, he had a long history of using his Star Destroyer to counter snubfighters, and Rogriss and Pellaeon had crammed every one of their fleet’s remaining TIE interceptors into the Star Destroyer’s massive underslung hangar.

But as timely as Harbid’s arrival was, his _positioning_ was not quite perfect. That wasn’t his fault; there was no way to predict which escape route the X-wing squadron would use in advance. Harbid’s guess had been a pretty good one, but _Death’s Head_ had overshot by four klicks and was on a vector that would take the big ship away from the fleeing Rogues rather than directly into their path. Between the momentary disorientation of the reversion to realspace, the ship’s inertia, and the _Imperial I’s_ poor turning radius, it would take several minutes for Harbid to get his ship turned around to engage the Rogues directly. Several minutes was all the Rogues would need to escape.

Rogriss took a moment to consider. Then he gave his orders.

“ _Death’s Head_ launch all TIE squadrons. Engage and destroy enemy snubfighters,” Rogriss said calmly to Lieutenant Tschel, who was sitting at _Chimaera’s_ communications station. “TIE squadrons assigned to CAP for _Stellar Web_ are ordered to join the fighter group and engage the enemy.”

He heard Pellaeon’s familiar footsteps behind him. “We have the Corvette in our tractor beams, sir,” Pellaeon announced, a hint of triumph in his voice. “They’ll be disabled in moments, though _Stellar Web_ reports minor damage.”

 _Ession Strike_ ought to be disabled quickly, subject to so much firepower. Out the forward bridge windows, a hail of blue weapons fire poured into the still-distant corvette, now being clawed closer and closer to _Chimaera_ against its will, though still angled on and firing at the Interdictor. The ship’s crew was good, but there would be no escape for them this time.

“We have the Rogues outnumbered eight to one,” Rogriss said to Pellaeon, watching as the TIE icons on his datapad began to multiply, pouring out of _Death’s Head’s_ hangar with as much haste as was safe.

Pellaeon was quiet for a moment, frowning at the plot. “Yes,” he agreed. “But they’re not that far from the edge of _Stellar Web’s_ gravity well. We might not be able to engage them before they escape.”

“Forcing them to run is a victory in and of itself,” Rogriss observed philosophically. “And maybe we will get lucky.” They were due a little luck, he thought.

* * *

Atril barked out desperate orders as ion cannons flickered over her ship, _Ession Strike’s_ shields barely holding. _At least they want us alive; if they were firing their turbolasers too we’d be ashes by now._ She gripped the armrest of her command chair tightly. “Helm, give me full engines. Keep us pointed straight at that Interdictor!” Wedge and the Rogues might not have been able to take out _Stellar Web_ in time to save _Strike,_ but maybe she could hurt it enough to save _them._ Her mind was oddly calm, and she found herself easing her wounded gunnery officer out of his seat and taking control of the ship’s weapons herself.

The Interdictor, its four bulbous gravity well projectors protruding out of its hull awkwardly, was growing steadily closer, and Atril had always been an excellent shot. She’d honed that skill at Carida, training under some of the best gunnery experts and pilots the Empire had to offer, and after she’d defected she’d continued to practice the skill, serving as a gunnery officer on several different Rebel capital ships before she’d found herself in command of _Ession Strike._ She’d trained her crew with that same precision.

She hit _Stellar Web_ with every weapon she had until her beloved ship finally went completely dark.

* * *

Wedge’s voice came over Luke’s com with the thicker static of heavier Imperial comm jamming. “Rogue Squadron, go . . . as you’ve cleared . . . gravity well. Rep . . . erspace as soon . . . the Interdictor’s gravity well . . .”

“See if you can clean that up, Artoo,” Luke snapped at his droid. In the distance, the blue fire between _Chimaera_ and _Ession Strike_ had faded almost entirely, and _Strike_ had stopped replying to any communications prompts at all. The corvette was completely disabled.

But Atril’s mad charge at _Stellar Web_ had succeeded in delaying the Interdictor’s pursuit, which would reduce the time required for the Rogues to escape the planetary-sized gravity well the ship was currently projecting and enter hyperspace. That saved time might be the difference between all twelve of the pilots making a successful escape or not, especially with the new arrival putting an enormous number of TIE interceptors into space.

 _It’s been years since I’ve seen a Star Destroyer carrying a full complement of TIEs,_ Luke thought to himself, shaking his head with a sort of stunned detachment. Assuming the Rogues all lived through this, it would definitely be a matter of pride and subject of bragging that the Empire feared them enough to go to such lengths just to try to kill them.

Unfortunately, that was a large assumption.

“Divert all power to engines and rear deflectors,” he said, thumbing his com and flipping his deflectors shields to full aft. He heard an echo of agreement and acknowledgement, and through the Force he felt unease growing alarmingly close to panic. Closing his eyes, letting instincts and Artoo guide his X-wing, Luke stretched out to the Force. His presence soothed tormented minds and allowed each pilot to find calm.

He’d never tried ‘battle meditation’ in combat before, but now seemed as good a time as any. Reports were that Thrawn had used the ability to great effect, which had driven Luke to research the ability. Sure enough, each of his fellow pilots relaxed, finding greater poise. He could feel Gavin Darklighter, the little cousin of his childhood best friend, still fighting through anxiety after his near-death fighting _Invidious_ at Cracken’s hidden prison, and helped him push that anxiety away. He could feel Wedge and Wes’ despair at the loss of _Ession Strike_ ; they had each known Atril longer and better than the squadron’s other pilots, and the fact that she would shortly be an Imperial prisoner—at best—weighed heavily on them. But that pain was a distraction now, and Wedge especially needed to be at his best, and he eased it out of the forefront of their minds.

The X-wings hummed, cockpits rattling as they were pushed to their limits. Someone—probably Tycho—suggested closing S-foils for even more speed. On Luke’s HUD, the vanguard squadron of TIE interceptors from _Death’s Head_ was still closing, but the first of the Rogues would be reaching the edge of the gravity well in seconds. It vaguely reminded Luke of the Battle of Yavin, watching the distance to the Death Star’s exhaust port tick down each second, TIE fighters screaming after them, eager to spit green laser fire—

The first X-wings to reach the edge of the gravity well stretched and vanished into hyperspace, and two allied minds winked out of his consciousness as the distance between them and Luke grew too great for his mental reach. Then the next two, and two more, and Luke felt Corran’s mind vanish along with his very alien wingman, and Wes’ familiar, jovial presence vanished with Gavin’s.

Green laser fire splashed against his reinforced aft shields.

“Go, Luke!”

Luke pressed the hyperspace lever flat and he vanished into the spinning lights of hyperspace.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the end of Act II of Interregnum. Next week we start on Act III. Fourteen chapters left!


	24. Chapter Twenty-Three

The _Millennium Falcon_ was being disturbingly obedient. Since they’d left Coruscant, literally _nothing_ had gone wrong. No problems with the hyperdrive, or with the stabilizers, or the weapons or the communications suite… sitting in the cockpit was almost boring.

Han found it extremely disquieting. Chewie, on the other hand, seemed to be enjoying the quiet ride.

“Chewie, is it just me or is the _Falcon_ in perfect working order?” Han asked surreptitiously. He had the sneaking feeling that if the _Falcon_ heard him talking about her, something would definitely go wrong… 

Chewbacca chuffed one of his typical Wookie laughs, then rumbled a response.

“Well, I know you’ve been spending a lot of time working on her, and I know we’ve never had a full supply of spare parts before, but… does this feel really weird to you, too?” Han asked, feeling slightly embarrassed.

The Wookie’s amused response made Han chuckle.

“Good point,” he conceded. “I suppose we should just be grateful nothing has gone wrong yet. With our track record, I probably ought to be making sure the main hyperdrive isn’t about to cut out on us.”

That quiet wouldn’t last much longer, though. They were coming up on the Maw, an array of black holes that clustered near the Kessel system and made approaching the old prison planet difficult and communicating with it spotty. The whirring blur of hyperspace was distorted as they got closer to it, the spiraling lines of hyperspace twisting and tugging.

There was a rustle of movement and Iella and Mara joined him and Chewie in the cockpit, taking Luke and Leia’s typical seats. “I hope we’re staying well clear of the Maw,” Iella said, watching a second distortion start to tug at the _Falcon,_ and a third. “When I was here with Wedge and Corran, we didn’t get this close.”

“Don’t worry,” Han reassured her, refusing to let any of his own anxiety over the Maw touch his voice. He and Chewie had done this literally dozens of times, and most of those times had come much closer to the Maw. It had just been a while since the last time. And maybe he had more to live for, now. “Chewie and me have done this plenty of times, we’ll be fine. We’re not really _that_ close.”

Mara scoffed. “Pilots.”

Iella grinned over at her. “They really do have different standards for risk, don’t they?”

“Hey, Leia made me promise I’d be careful, so I’m being careful,” Han objected. “Almost time to exit hyperspace, Chewie.”

The Wookiee barked a slightly-annoyed retort of his own.

“I _know_ that _you_ know that,” Han’s tone was halfway between aggravated and apologetic. “I just wasn’t sure if _they_ knew it, and didn’t want to seem patronizing.”

“Too late,” muttered Mara. “Of course we knew it was about time to come out of hyperspace, why else would we _be_ here?”

Han felt his cheeks flush slightly, and compensated by concentrating on the hyperspace lever. “Oh. Well, good.” He watched the navicomputer tick down as they got closer and closer to Kessel’s gravity, putting some distance between them and the Maw, and drew back the lever to drop them out of hyperspace. The spinning wheel of light streaked back into the motionless dots of distant stars. He pointed out of the cockpit. “Kessel. In all its awful glory.”

Kessel was an elliptically-shaped rock, large enough to retain an atmosphere (mostly) but not large enough to retain one that was pleasant for humans. Enormous facilities generated additional atmosphere, pumping out air that hovered around the planet briefly, but inevitably trailed away, leaving a faint, hazy corona that formed a tail behind Kessel. In the distance, Kessel’s blue-white star offered light, but for human eyes it always felt alien. In orbit around Kessel was its sole moon, round and more typical, with its old Imperial garrison.

“Hasn’t changed since the last time I was here,” Iella said.

“I don’t think Kessel has changed much since it was first settled by the Old Republic,” Han replied, taking control of the _Falcon_ and aiming the freighter towards Kessel and its moon. He kicked the ship to full throttle, then let the ship sail towards the planet at a quick but not hurried pace. “It’s always been a deathtrap, the only thing that’s been variable is scale.”

Chewie worked the controls in the copilot seat, and yowled a mild alarm.

“What is it?” asked Mara, sitting up in her chair and peering at the planet over Han’s shoulder.

“Chewie says he can’t raise Kessel’s landing control,” Han replied thoughtfully. “Although that may not mean much. Back during Jabba’s day, there would be times he’d bribe the entire Imperial garrison to take a day off and then he’d slip three or four bulk freighters in.”

Iella whistled, sounding awed. “If CorSec had known that, we would’ve garrisoned this place ourselves. We dumped a lot of prisoners here over the years.”

“You could’ve tried,” Han snorted. “But don’t think the Imperial authorities back on Coruscant didn’t know. If Corellia had asserted itself like that, the Empire would’ve yanked on the Diktat’s leash and forced you to back off.”

Han saw Mara’s expression tighten, and could see the flicker of shame in that expression. _Still a little messed up by all that Imperial doctrine and dogma_ , Han thought, _but she has a good heart, even if you have to dig past her natural buffer of hostility to see it._

Leia had spent months digging past _his_ buffer layer of hostility, after all. He couldn’t hold Mara’s against her, not without making himself a hypocrite. He hated hypocrites. Besides, it was mostly Luke’s problem.

Chewbacca rumbled something else, and Han nodded. “Yeah, true. Since Doole took over after Endor, it’s been orderly but not _too_ orderly. Hard to know how much of that is by design or just the natural consequence of the change in regime.” He fired the _Falcon’s_ aft thrusters as Kessel started to loom in the forward viewport. “Vectoring in.”

They were well into Kessel’s gravity well when the blips of unidentified spacecraft started to appear on his screens. “We’ve got bogeys, Chewie. I’m seeing about a half-dozen. Look to be about snubfighter sized.”

The Wookie worked the communications controls, then growled unhappily when there was no reply.

“Send them our New Republic identifiers again,” Han suggested, waving at the computer.

Iella peered at the console over Chewbacca’s shoulder, and pointed. “Can you get a better look at one of them?” she asked.

Chewie focused the screen, and the image of the unidentified spacecraft solidified into a strange-looking fighter, certainly from the TIE squadron line. It had a TIE fighter cockpit, married to three triangular wings attached equidistant around the fighter. “Imperials!” Iella exclaimed.

“I don’t recognize the design,” Mara said, sounding more thoughtful than surprised. “Looks like a cross between a Defender and an Interceptor, but it’s not familiar to me from my Imperial service.”

“I don’t recognize it either,” Han added. “And I don’t like it. Why don’t you two go warm up the quads just in case, while Chewie and I try to see what these guys want.”

Iella leaned over his shoulder, examining the enemy starfighter more closely. She let out a slow, aggravated sound. “I recognize it. That’s the same design that Wedge and the Rogues fought, when Moff Tavira staged the breakout of Cracken’s prisoner.” She folded her arms across her chest, her expression darkening. “I suppose that confirms that Vorru was involved with that, too, if there was any remaining doubt.”

“Great,” Han muttered. “Maybe we should’ve waited until we could bring a Star Cruiser with us after all. Go get the quads.”

Iella and Mara vanished into the back, and the cockpit gunnery computer stirred to life. The emblems for each turret turned yellow, indicating that power was being transferred to the lasers.

Han switched on the audio pickup. “This is Han Solo, captain of the _Millennium Falcon._ I’m here on official New Republic business. Administrator Doole and I go way back, and I’m sure he’s going to want to talk to me.” He wasn’t sure, in fact he was pretty sure Doole wouldn’t be happy to see him, even if Doole was still in charge, but… there was only static in reply. Han started to ease back on the stick, aiming to guide the _Falcon_ up and off its trajectory into Kessel’s atmosphere, just in case they needed to make a run for it. “Uh, please state your intentions.”

The unknown TIEs were within four klicks now, and that meant they were getting alarmingly close to combat range. The turret monitor turned green, letting him know the quads were fully charged and ready for action.

The incoming fighters closed, still refusing to respond to Han’s comms. Han found himself shifting the _Falcon’s_ course, adjusting to maintain his distance from the swarm—and froze. He frowned, quickly toggling through each of the fighters that were now pacing them. They were maintaining distance, trying to box the _Falcon_ in between them, and he’d just been about to adjust their course back down towards Kessel.

“Uh-oh,” he muttered. “They’re trying to force us to ground, Chewie.”

The Wookiee rumbled agreement, his big furred head nodding in response.

“Ladies, our friends out there are trying to force us to land,” Han said over the intercom. “It looks like they’re pushing us towards the main landing pad at the Correctional Facility,” he added after a minute tracking the _Falcon’s_ course. “We can try to break out—” his voice trailed off as two additional ships came over the horizon, and then a third. Han’s heart fell as he saw more fighters pouring from the two flight cruisers, escorted by a Corellian Corvette whose IFF declared it _Captain’s Ladder._ The flight cruisers—little more than large bulk freighters who had been converted into starfighter carriers with room left for loot—didn’t announce their IDs at all. “More trouble,” he growled. “I _knew_ this was a bad idea.”

“Are we going to try to fight our way out?” asked Iella over the intercom.

Han glanced at Chewie, who gave him one of his familiar cautioning looks. “I don’t think we can evade or fight three squadrons of these fighters, not if they’re as capable as Wedge’s report suggested,” Han replied, watching his screens as the fighters continued to proliferate. “Especially not with those three larger ships boxing us in, and Kessel blocking a whole hemisphere of escape opportunities. Although…” his brain quickly regarded Kessel’s geography. They were trying to force him to go low, maybe he ought to let them…

“ _Millennium Falcon,_ this is _Captain’s Ladder_ , Kessel Defense Forces _._ ” The voice that spoke over the comm was male and authoritative, with a professional military clip that sounded authentic. “Captain Solo, you are ordered to land. Our fighters will guide you in safely. Administrator Doole guarantees your safety.”

“Kessel Defense Forces, huh,” Han muttered skeptically to Chewbacca. “They make this place sound like it has an organized government. That would be a first.”

Chewie growled his agreement.

If they were going to try to make an escape, they’d have to do it fast. The longer they waited to make their move, the more enemy fighters would be in combat range. Han examined the topography of Kessel beneath them. There wasn’t a whole lot of useful terrain for cover, which was a problem… and it would be extraordinarily risky. Surrender might be the safest option… he keyed the intercom. “Mara, what do you think?” Luke wasn’t here, but maybe his Force-strong probably-future-girlfriend would have some of his intuition. The Force might be incomprehensible, but Luke had also proven that it _worked_.

It was Iella who responded first. “Do you think they’ll kill you if we land?”

Han shook his head. “No. We’re too valuable as hostages, and whoever these people are I’m sure they _know_ they don’t want to piss off my wife.” He was pretty sure he and Chewie had value as hostages. He was _very_ sure they didn’t want to make Leia mad.

“I have an idea, then,” Iella said. “Let them guide us in.”

The odd TIEs, with their three triangular wings, were now settled around the _Falcon_ in a tight escort formation. On his screen, the two quad laser turrets powered down; in front of him, he could see the sprawling Correctional Facility start to grow on the horizon. “Red?”

Mara’s voice sounded distant. He knew that tone of voice, too; he’d heard it plenty from Luke over the years. “It’ll be okay, Solo.”

Han didn’t agree. What had he been thinking, volunteering to take them to Kessel? He _hated_ this place; he hated the prisoners, he hated the administrators, he hated the way the air tasted like gravel and every breath was too short. He hated the TIEs pacing his currently-in-perfect-condition ship, and he hated everything they represented. And he wasn’t a ne'er-do-well smuggler anymore! He should be back home at the apartment he shared with Leia on Coruscant, urging the twins to eat and comforting them when one stubbed a toe!

But Mara was going to go regardless, and he’d be damned if he’d let Luke’s… whatever she was… go off to Kessel, of all places, without adequate backup. It was too late to back out now. He just had to hope that Mara and Iella knew what they were doing.

Actually, when he phrased it that way, things didn’t sound too bad.

* * *

Whoever it was outside the _Falcon_ didn’t wait for Han to lower the ramp. There was a heavy knocking on the outer hatch, followed almost immediately by it popping open. _One of the locals must have a deft hand with electronics, they hotwired that quick,_ Han thought with a scowl. He and Chewie stood within as light—the simultaneously dim and glaring blue from Kessel’s star—flooded into the freighter, and the _Falcon’s_ air flooded out.

Chewie hated Kessel even more than Han did, and the big Wookiee moaned softly as the air grew suddenly thin and stale. Heavy footsteps followed the light in; the men who boarded the _Falcon_ wore a hodgepodge of armor and equipment, classic to Fringe operators. Some wore old Imperial guard equipment, but most didn’t. Unlike him and Chewie, the boarders wore oxygen masks that made Han instantly jealous.

The leader led them up the ramp, taller than the rest, with an extremely lanky build that made him look oddly scarecrow-ish. On his belt he carried a heavily modified (and very illegal) double-blaster; he also wore an Imperial blaster-resistant vest that was a size too small for him. The man offered Han a wide, mocking grin, holding his hands out wide in an expression that Han found oddly familiar, though with the oxygen mask covering the lower half of his face, Han couldn’t place the man.

“Han Solo,” the scarecrow-like said. Han couldn’t see his mouth, but the rest of the man’s body language bore every indication that the lips hidden by the man’s oxygen mask wore a mocking smile. “You’re going to wish you never came back to Kessel.”

His voice was familiar, and Han’s mind rang with recognition. Those eyes, that voice…

“I already do, Skynxnex” Han replied, crossing his arms. He was honestly surprised that Skynxnex was still alive after all these years. Back during the Imperial days, when Doole had been a corrupt administrator and part of Jabba’s criminal network (and thus Han’s primary contact on Kessel), Skynxnex had served as the Rybet’s bodyguard. Before his arrival on Kessel, the scarecrow-like figure had been a low-level Black Sun enforcer. Neither career put him on Han Solo’s current list of favorite people. Han put as much derision into his voice as he could. “We’re here on official business. Do you really think the New Republic is going to let you mistreat its envoys?”

“Mistreat?” Skynxnex sounded too upbeat and innocent. “I have no idea what you could possibly mean.”

Han’s spine shivered. He’d forgotten Skynxnex’s talent for making positively innocuous things sound sinister. “Doole and I go way back,” Han reminded him. “And what I have to offer him could make him rich.”

Skynxnex gestured at the men surrounding him, pointing them into the _Falcon_. “Search the ship.” Chewie made a soft, unhappy moan as six of the other men flowed past them into their ship, the heavy sound of booted feet on metal grating making Han wince. He hated having strangers on his ship, it always took weeks to fix everything, and sometimes even months later he’d stumble across something not quite right… “Did you hear me, Skynxnex?” Han asked, folding his arms across his chest and scowling.

“Did you bring any other company, Solo?” the Skynxnex asked, stepping forward to loom over Han, his flinty gaze appraising.

“Chewie and I don’t make a habit of carrying just anyone,” Han retorted. “We didn’t bring my wife, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“A pity,” Skynxnex said sarcastically. “I always wanted to meet a Princess.” He shoved Han in the back lightly, making him stumble. An attempt by one of his comrades to do the same to Chewie provoked a growl. Skynxnex sneered at the Wookie and gestured down the _Falcon’s_ ramp. “Get moving. I’ll take you to Doole. He’s been wanting to catch up with Solo here for years.”

 _Well, that can’t be good,_ Han thought dourly _._ Doole had been Han’s contact on Kessel during his smuggling days, one of the many corrupt administrators who had been on Jabba’s payroll. The Empire had maintained strict quotas on Kessel’s production and sale, maintaining their effective monopoly on a substance which had a multiplicity of uses, ranging from therapeutic to recreational to… other more esoteric uses. Kessel’s glitterstim Spice was the purest and most effective of all the varieties of space the galaxy had to offer, and Doole had been able to syphon small amounts of it off the Empire’s official manifest and into the hands of smugglers.

Han had never liked Doole much, but he’d never disliked him either. He was just a contact, one of many. Still, it was possible that Doole held a grudge. Han had, after all, been forced to dump a particularly valuable shipment of Spice into the vacuum of space after his last visit to Kessel, and Jabba surely had imposed his unhappiness with that clear to Doole as much as the old slug had to Han.

It was a short trip from the landing facility to Kessel’s former Imperial administrator’s building. The massive structure loomed over them as they approached, the large flat face of the structure blocking the horizon like a giant, angled wall in space, the harsh rays of Kessel’s blue-white sun reflecting off its semi-reflective surface. Above the facility, Han could see the pair of boxy flight cruisers hovering in low orbit, distant but nonetheless clearly visible.

Han nudged Chewie. “Chewie, your eyes are better than mine. Take a look at those cruisers for me, will you?” he whispered, glancing back at the guards behind them, whose blasters were held with the casual readiness of a semi-professional.

Chewbacca rumbled softly, turning his head slightly to look up. They were pressed into an elevator and Chewbacca leaned towards him, a quick, throaty grumble quietly passing off what the Wookiee’s superior eyes had discerned.

Han’s chest tightened. _The cruisers have their dorsal turrets trained on the building_. It wasn’t surprising, in hindsight. Whoever the pirates were, they were ensuring Doole’s loyalty by putting him on the business end of their cruisers, corvette, and TIEs.

From the state of the administrative building’s interior, it was possible that the pirates had required a ground campaign as well to compel Doole’s loyalty. The building showed all the signs of decay from lack of regular maintenance, but there were also blaster scars which could’ve been new. Or, Han thought, those scars could date back to when Doole first conquered Kessel, shortly after Endor. It was impossible to tell just how old they were.

After a few more twists and turns they arrived in Doole’s office. The back wall was a long, broad panel of windows looking out over Kessel’s desolate landscape; the air between Han and those windows filled with a thin mist of moisture from the humidifier sitting near a short desk. Doole himself looked as if he had seen better days; the Rybet’s gaze turned on Han, but one of his eyes was a milky, sightless white. The reptilian alien fiddled with a mechanical contraption strapped over his other eye, lenses whirring and clicking into place. Han was reminded vaguely of Artoo, but Luke’s astromech was of much better quality. After a long inspection, Doole finally hissed in recognition. “It _is_ you, Solo!”

Han frowned. “Been hitting the Spice too heavily I see, Moruth. Always gets the eyesight first.”

Doole didn’t look like a prisoner, but he didn’t look happy either. The Rybet’s expression tightened and he hopped off his chair, coming towards him with a menacing expression—or, as menacing as a more-than-half-blind Rybet could manage, anyway. Skynxnex was the one who’s expression was legitimately menacing, but—

Han frowned. Doole's lanky bodyguard wasn’t even watching him or Chewie. His attention was entirely on the two other men of his security team. Realization washed over him. Those guards weren’t here to keep an eye on him and Chewie—or not entirely, anyway—they were here to watch _Doole and Skynxnex._

Vorru’s men.

“It wasn’t Spice that did this,” Doole snapped, pointing at the contraption over his eye. “Why are you here, Solo?”

Han’s realization fully in mind, he could hear the tension in Doole’s voice. It wasn’t just anger at Han for perceived old slights. The Rybet was scared. Han thought fast. “I’m here as a representative of the New Republic government,” he said. “You know we’ve been trying to get you to open up the legal Spice trade—it has plenty of legal uses, not just illegal ones—and since we’ve made our deal with the Smugglers’ Alliance, plenty of Fringe operators who used to avoid us have been thawing out a bit.”

“You’re a spy!” Doole exclaimed, disbelieving, and sounding paranoid. “Did you think you could just fly into our space, look around, and go back to your Republic with all the information they need to send a Star Destroyer over to take us over!” He clenched his tiny green fist, shaking it at Han, trembling. “We’ll be ready if you try it!”

“You have it all wrong,” Han exclaimed. “We don’t need to take you over! A little bargaining, maybe a chat with Talon Karrde, and you could triple your profits and on _legal_ trade! Don’t be a fool!”

It was hard to tell, with Doole’s one sightless eye and his second covered behind the mechanical photoreceptor, but Han was pretty sure the Rybet was staring at him. “We’ll see.” Doole reached into the pocket of his waistcoat and withdrew a small, ornately engraved box. He fumbled with it, his webbed fingers shaking some more as he popped it open. Inside, the padded box was filled with short black-wrapped cylinders.

Han’s heart fell. “Glitterstim.”

“The purest that Kessel produces. With it, I’ll be able to read the truth of what you say.”

Han knew it was true. Glitterstim spice was highly addictive, but it wasn’t strictly illegal in the galaxy, just controlled. When ingested, it produced a somewhat pleasurable telepathic boost and higher mental acuity. That made it useful for interrogations and loyalty tests, and the Empire (and the Fringe) had long exploited it for both. It allowed two lovers to enjoy a fleeting telepathic touch, or to enjoy an emotional high of a crowd, or feel an emotion that a patient would otherwise be incapable of. In some its effects were even more potent. It even had therapeutic uses. Han had seen it used, and he also knew the after effects: the addiction, paranoia, and motor problems that could follow repeated use.

Doole’s hand shook as he extracted one of the black cylinders from the case, his hand shaking as he removed the wrapping and withdrew the Spice. He held the transparent, glassy fibers up, allowing it to absorb the light through the large exterior window; the fibers started to scintillate. When they turned a pearlescent blue and started sparking with energy, their color matching that of Kessel’s star, the Rybet placed the fibers on his long, purple tongue and closed his mouth around them.

Doole closed his eyes, breathing deep breaths. His trembling stopped, his hands growing steady and confident. His mechanical eye focused on Han, and while Han couldn’t see the Rybet’s eye underneath his mechanical contraption, he could tell Doole was watching him with the glassy focus of a Spice user in full high.

Chewbacca moaned softly, and Han took a sharp breath. There it was—the clawing sensation of Spice-borne telepathy, of memories drawn to the fore unbidden, flashes of images prompted by the urgings of a foreign mind. Han tried to fight it, his expression growing twisted and furious. He _hated_ Spice intrusions… but he knew that the rage would be obvious to Doole. He fought it back, urging his mind to bring forward his many meetings with Leia and the Inner Council about the need for closer ties to the Fringes, about the value of Kessel, the therapeutic value of Spice.

He tried even harder to keep the more recent meetings that featured Kessel out of his mind. It was hard to keep thoughts from a glitterstim addict, but it wasn’t impossible. The duration of the effect was rather short, and Han had been told once long ago that you could hide some secrets if you offered others. _Vorru_ , he thought. _We’re here to investigate Vorru. Vorru, from Corellia. We think he’s working with Leonia Tavira, and she has a Star Destroyer. Vorru, Vorru, Vorru_ … He thought back to the HoloNet reports that had been common in his youth, of Moff Vorru’s rule over his home system, of what he knew of Vorru’s involvement with Black Sun, the little he remembered about Leonia Tavira. _We think Vorru escaped, we think Vorru escaped, we think Vorru escaped…_

He tried very, very hard not to think of the group of people who made up that “we”. Doole could have whatever else he wanted, but if—

Doole’s eyes opened wide and he turned towards the men with Skynxnex. “You fools!” he hissed. “Your master has brought him here. They know that Vorru has escaped, and they’re here because they want to find out what he’s up to.” Doole took a half-step forward, in a manner meant to be menacing and which did convey real fury and fear. “He’s going to bring the New Republic down on all of us!”

Han wasn’t sure if the glitterstim effect had worn off yet. _Vorru, attack on Coruscant, working with a man with a lightsaber in bronze armor_ —

Doole spun around, staring at Han with the bright, glassy gaze of a fully-focused glitterstim abuser. He could still see into Han’s mind, could hear his thoughts for as long as the Spice high continued… Han’s surprise muted into suspicion as the Rybet resumed speaking. “The New Republic will be coming for us!” Doole hissed, and Han suspected that the Rybet’s glitterstim-induced high was also amplifying Doole’s paranoia. “I am not paranoid!” Doole exclaimed, gripping Han’s shirt in both his scaly hands and shaking him. “The New Republic wants Kessel for its own! Talon Karrde and the Smugglers’ Alliance will come to steal all that I’ve fought for, all that I’ve worked for, and it’s all Fliry Vorru’s fault!” He spun again, sending Han spilling to the floor in an undignified heap.

Han rolled onto his side in time to watch a furious, outraged Doole march towards the men flanking Skynxnex, his hands balled into angry fists. “Are you sure they’re here for Vorru?” one of the men was asking—

“Yes I’m sure! And you’re sure too, don’t tell me you’re not, I can see it in your mind!” Han could tell that the high was starting to come down, though, the Rybet’s energy was beginning to fade, rage transforming into audible fear. “Vorru and Tavira are going to destroy me.”

Vorru’s two men glanced at each other, their expressions hardening. “Did he think of Tavira?” one of them asked.

“Yes of course he thought of Tavira,” Doole sputtered. “Did you really think New Republic Intelligence wouldn’t find out! You decided to challenge Airen Cracken and you put _me_ in the line of fire!”

“Are you sure?” the other insisted. 

“Do you want to test them yourself?” asked Doole. He held the box out towards the man. “I have plenty more glitterstim, if you would like.”

The man blanched. “No,” he replied quickly. “Fine.” He turned to Skynxnex. “Put them in a holding cell,” he instructed. “We’ll hold them until we contact our superiors and find out what they want done.”

“No!” Doole hissed angrily. “Send them to the mines. Solo deserves no better.”

Han glared. “What did I do to deserve the mines?” he objected. Doole, however, was utterly fixated on Vorru’s men, and Han didn’t need the Force to see what the Rybet was feeling.

Doole’s anger was old and genuine—and empowered by fear. Vorru’s man frowned, hesitating, then nodded reluctantly. “All right. They won’t die down there will they?”

“If people died so quickly in the mines,” Doole glowered, “I wouldn’t have any workers.” He pointed at Skynxnex. “Skynxnex, take them to the mines! The Wookiee will at least earn its keep.” 

Chewie rumbled menacingly.

Skynxnex stepped back before glowered at them. He moved over to Han and pressed his double-barrel blaster into Han’s back. The barrel ground painfully against his spine, making him gasp. “Move. And don’t try anything, Chewbacca, or I’ll cook your owner from the inside out,” Skynxnex growled.

 _Oh great_. _The Spice mines. This is getting better all the time._ Han stumbled towards the exit, pushed by Skynxnex’s blaster. 

As they exited the room, he could hear the faint rattle of Doole’s talons on the table again, indicating a glitterstim come-down, and Han finally allowed his thoughts to wander back to the two women hidden away in the _Millennium Falcon._ At least they had a chance. 

That brief flare optimism faded along with the light as they descended down the long mine shaft into the pits of Kessel.

* * *

There was no light permitted in the Spice mines at all. Spice exposed to light began to ripen immediately and had to either be consumed or would be wasted, so the production and transport of Spice was as much about maintaining complete darkness around the product as it was collecting it. Surviving underground on Kessel as a Spice miner was about learning how not to rely on your eyes; touch, sound, smell, and instinct were what you had to work with, so you either learned how to use them or you died.

The Spice mines smelled distinctly of fresh air when you got closer to the surface; the deeper you got, the smells shifted depending on what you came near. Different minerals had distinctive scents that the miners could learn to recognize with time and experience, as did the varied creatures that could survive in the dark. Water deposits always meant a variety of molds, some of which could be toxic with extended exposure, and the Spice spiders often left droppings that every miner learned to recognize.

Some races, like Sullustans, were comfortable in the dark, and they tended to do well. But survival in the Spice mines was as much about luck and perseverance as it was about cleverness or senses. Humans could do well, once they got over their fear.

Kyp did quite well. Unlike most of his fellows, he’d arrived on Kessel young and had spent most of his life in the mines. The long working days were always spent in the total absence of light, and he’d long since stopped missing it.

The other miners thought him a wizard, when they thought of him at all. Even the Sullustans couldn’t match his daily output of Spice when he put his mind to it, but there was little point in over-achieving. The prisoners didn’t get promotions or privileges for excellent work, there was no dream of freedom for most. No one would be coming to get him out when his time was up. So he collected what he needed, supported the other prisoners when he felt it was safe and they deserved it, and avoided them when it wasn’t. 

In the darkness, he dreamed of freedom, family, and blue seas. 

The same drives that brought him success in the mines made him decide to change his routine that morning. Usually he’d take one of the mining cars with a hundred other sentients or so down into one of the less dangerous, less profitable veins. He always came out of it with what he needed to pay for meals and a bunk, so there was no reason to do anything riskier. But today he decided to take a different mining car down into one of the richest veins, with the greatest chance of encountering a spider. He didn’t have a reason to do that, really, but it felt _right_ in a way he couldn’t articulate. 

He glided onto the car, feeling his way to an empty seat. He heard a loud, plaintive rumble in the next row, and with it came the distinctive scent of a Wookiee.

“I know, I know, I can’t see anything either. It’s like Jabba’s frozen me in carbonite all over again.”

Kyp hovered next to the voice, not yet sitting down as he debated the wisdom of taking the seat. It was an older man’s voice, with the light sarcasm and accent common to the Corellian smugglers who came and went, cursing CorSec with every step. They usually didn’t live very long.

“Hey, you! Kid! Number fourteen! Go back to your seat!” the guard operating the car yelled at him. Kyp’s head turned in the guard’s direction; he couldn’t see the man, but he could feel his presence. The guard was one of the lucky ones, wearing infrared goggles to make policing the inmates easier.

Kyp debated, then sat next to the unfamiliar voice.

“I said go back to your seat!”

“This is my new seat,” Kyp said firmly, sending the guard a scowl.

“That is your new seat,” the guard echoed back.

Kyp shook his head. He wasn’t sure _why_ that worked, but it was enough that it did. He leaned closer to the man now sitting next to him. The man had tensed during the exchange, attentive and aware, but utterly unprepared to deal with the reality of the Spice mines. “Are you from the outside?” he asked.

The man next to him took a breath, probably wondering if he was about to be slashed with a vibroblade, or pushed off the car. Such things happened often enough. The car lurched, beginning its motion, rolling down the rails and deeper into the caves, building speed. The sensation of stone rushing past, air brushing over his face and bringing with them new scents, was as familiar to him as his own skin.

“Yeah, we’re from out there,” the man said.

“I’m Kyp. Kyp Durron,” Kyp said. He still had the sneaking sensation that being here was a good idea, even if he didn’t know why… Behind them, the man’s Wookiee companion rumbled with a question, but Kyp didn’t understand him.

“How’d you end up on Kessel, Kyp?” the man asked. Kyp didn’t begrudge the man withholding his name; all new arrivals did at first. Everyone had enemies on Kessel.

“My parents were political prisoners, sent here by the Empire.” Kyp’s throat tightened. This was always the hardest part of meeting new people. He didn’t like remembering the past, even if there had been more sunlight. “They conscripted my brother Zeth and took him off to Carida to make him a stormtrooper, but I was too young.”

He heard the man grimace, could sense the twisting of his lips. The raw, sincere sympathy that Kyp could sense from him and the Wookiee reinforced the idea that meeting and talking with these two was a good idea, even if he still wasn’t quite sure why. “Sorry to hear that. The Empire does that to a lot of people, though not as much as they used to. What happened to your parents?”

Kyp swallowed hard. “During Doole’s revolt, they were accused of being trusties.” He swallowed again, fighting back sadness and loathing. “Imperial sympathizers. They… died.”

A large, adult hand found his shoulder. Kyp froze, his eyes widening, gasping the flowing air, the sense of moving stone just inches away still swirling around him. “Well, I’m Han. Stick close to me and Chewie, kid. We’ll look out for you.” The Wookiee rumbled something that sounded like agreement.

Kyp smiled despite himself, suddenly sure that he was exactly where he needed to be, when he needed to be there. It was the first time he’d smiled in… he wasn’t even sure how long. “No offense, but I think it’s going to be me looking out for you.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Elements of Kevin J. Anderson's "Jedi Search," including descriptions and dialogue, were repurposed to varying degrees in this chapter.


	25. Chapter Twenty-Four

The _Millennium Falcon’s_ smuggling compartment was the product of many years of clever space-making. Solo and Chewbacca had on several different occasions re-arranged the _Falcon’s_ interior, taking advantage of the compartmentalized nature of the YT-1300 design to add hidden areas unique to the _Falcon_ that a typical customs enforcement officer would overlook.

While the ship was in flight, this compartment—nestled between the ship’s outer hull and its major thruster assembly, in a narrow space just barely wide enough for a human being—would be deafeningly loud. But Iella and Mara had fit snugly inside after Han had set the ship down (and locked out the engines so that it would take a team of techs several hours at least to get the _Falcon_ moving again).

They waited.

“I was a CorSec enforcement agent,” Iella groused. “And now I’m hidden in one of the _Millennium Falcon’s_ smuggling compartments. This ship was notorious at the academy.” She sighed, wiggling to try to get just slightly more comfortable. “At least I’ll have the satisfaction of knowing that Solo’s going to have to rebuild the interior of this bucket all over again, just to fit in some new hidden compartments that I won’t know about.”

“You’ve been with NRI for a while now,” Mara pointed out. “Surely you’ve used smuggling compartments before.”

Iella smiled wryly. “Not only that, my CorSec partner went and _married_ a smuggler. But it’s the principle of the thing. Besides, I have to complain otherwise I’ll lose my reputation for being tough on smugglers.” She twisted, attempting to stretch. “I’ve got a crick in my back and it’s starting to really hurt,” she muttered. “Can we get out of here yet?”

Mara closed her eyes, reaching out in the Force. This had been difficult, or even impossible, not that long ago, but in the last year her sensitivity had improved, better than ever. She could feel each mind as it traveled through the _Falcon,_ feel their focus or distraction. The closer they came, the easier it became to sense each mind, candle flames in the dark. “No,” she murmured. “There is still a detachment searching the ship. They’re looking for hidden compartments like ours, but it doesn’t seem like they’re having much luck.”

“I hope they didn’t hire a CorSec inspection team” Iella muttered. “We know the YT-1300 inside and out. There are only so many places you can put a hidden compartment given its internal geometry.”

“They’re competent enough,” Mara said, her eyes still closed as she concentrated. “But they don’t have military discipline. Mercs, probably. Or other Fringers, maybe even former prisoners.”

Iella frowned. “Do you think they’ll find us?”

Mara opened her eyes, taking a second to withdraw her extended Force-sense, compacting her awareness back to its normal reach. “I have no idea,” she said bluntly. “But if they do, we’ll at least have forewarning.”

Iella wiggled, trying to get comfortable sandwiched between the _Falcon’s_ inertial dampeners and the coolant line for the Quadex power core. “That’s something, I guess.” She sighed and slumped, finding a place to sit and rest her knees. “How long are we going to be hidden in here?”

“I don’t know that either,” Mara replied. “These guys seem diligent, but not paranoid.” She offered Iella a small smirk. “If I were in charge of searching the _Falcon_ for intruders, I’d just flood the ship with something like Trion gas. It wouldn’t kill us, but it’d force us to evacuate or fall unconscious.”

“I hope they’re not as clever as you are,” Iella muttered. “Speaking of which, do we have our masks?”

Mara pointed at the box in the corner, stuffed with as many supplies as she could snag without leaving obvious items missing. “Over there.” Mara too sank down to the floor, groaning as she let herself relax. The Force would warn her if they were in immediate danger, she knew. “Might as well relax and just wait it out.” She winced, the hard floor already becoming uncomfortable. “As much as we can, anyway.”

* * *

“How’d you end up in CorSec?”

The searchers were quite stubborn, but not very smart. It’d been two and a half hours since they’d landed, and Mara and Iella had started to run out of lighthearted conversation topics. Mara, somewhat reluctantly, had let the conversation stray into topics which had the potential for more depth.

It wasn’t that she didn’t like to talk to people. She could have friendly conversations. But real, deep conversations about her past, her present, her future? Those were reserved to a small handful of people. Karrde, on rare occasions. Skywalker. Leia, when the Councilor used her incredible conversation finesse to slip them into deeper waters before Mara had a chance to extract herself. Solo, exactly once. Madine too now, she supposed.

The list was growing.

Iella shrugged. “I didn’t know what else to do. I had a friend back home growing up who was taking the exam—her father was a CorSec investigator, pretty junior. So I went with her, took it on a lark. She failed the exam, I passed with flying colors.” She grimaced. “That was the end of our friendship, but it gave me a career path.”

Iella glanced over at Mara, who was curled into an awkward sitting position, one of the _Falcon’s_ maintenance hatches pressing annoyingly into her side. “I’ve read your file.”

Mara nodded, her expression carefully blank. “I don’t have much of a recruitment story. Not one I remember, anyway.” She leaned back into the hatch, shifting a bit so it prodded a different spot for a while, a needling ache that matched the one Iella’s comment evoked.

“Why did you leave the Empire? After Palpatine’s death, I mean.”

“It wasn’t an Empire worth serving anymore,” Mara said bluntly. “I’d never had a high opinion of the sycophants and sociopaths that Palpatine surrounded himself with. As far as I was concerned, _he_ was the Empire, everyone else was just necessary grease for the gears of state.” She thought back to those chaotic hours, after Palpatine’s last command had imprinted on her brain, leaving her near-catatonic on the floor of the Imperial palace. “They considered me a threat, and they were right to. Isard locked me up and I have no doubt she would have killed me, just to make sure I didn’t get in her way. I had no allegiance to her, or to power-hungry upstarts like Thrawn or Pestage. So there was nothing to stay for, and every reason to leave.”

Iella nodded, and to Mara’s surprise she offered Mara a sympathetic smile, a ghost of old pain leaving lines across her face. “I wasn’t all that fond of Isard either.”

“I doubt any Rebel operatives liked her much.”

“My grudge was personal.” Iella stretched out her legs, found that position didn’t help at all, tried again. Her combat-booted feet extended towards Mara, leaving the two women vaguely facing each other in the small space. “She killed my husband.”

Mara thought back to the pictures in Iella’s apartment. One in particular—the older man, in the black-bordered portrait which was nearest Iella when Mara had come in. He had looked kind, almost soft.

“Diric,” Iella said, with an old fondness that bespoke both happiness and pain. “Old Corellian name.” She stretched, or tried to, and winced as something prodded her. “He was kind and patient, and at the time I was overcaffeinated and bitter. He provided stability I’d never had before, certainly not at home. He came from old family money, and growing up the way I did, that felt like heaven, but he didn’t have the crass self-satisfaction that coming from wealth can sometimes give people.” She leaned back and seemed to find her new position more comfortable. “He was a roving lecturer, but somehow he ended up inviting himself into my CorSec offices and ended up a sort of ad-hoc advisor to Corran, Gil, and me. He _always_ thought we’d missed something important.” She chuckled. “Usually we had. It was horribly aggravating.” Her voice grew fond, but the pain hung on every exhale. “He was home.”

Was this normal? Sometimes the _Wild Karrde’s_ crew would talk about their relationships, but Faughn was always tight-lipped about hers, and Chin, Aves, and Dankin had different ideas about what constituted relationships—at least, that they were willing to share. She’d seen Leia and Han together, a handful of times, but in the Imperial Palace it had always seemed like every relationship was an arrangement, high politics by alternative means. That wasn’t what Iella was describing at all. 

“Isard took him,” Iella said quietly, anguish heavy in her voice. “Lusankya.”

That one word was enough to make Mara grimace. _Lusankya._ It had been Isard’s prison, her lair, her Super Star Destroyer. It was where she took her prisoners and implanted commands deep in their subconscious, turned them against themselves—and everyone they loved.

“I don’t think he’d ever picked up a blaster in his life before that last night,” Iella said quietly. “I didn’t even realize who he was until after I’d already shot him.” The Corellian curled into herself, putting her forehead down into her knee.

Mara swallowed. Sorrow poured over Iella in waves, but it was scarred over; numb, without the agony of a fresh wound. The emotion swirled even still, love and pain and loss all mingled together. It was fresh and new, shocking and _real_ and painful and Mara found herself both sympathetic and oddly jealous. “I’m sorry,” she said. That was what you were supposed to say, wasn’t it? It seemed woefully inadequate.

Iella offered her a weak smile. “At least Isard’s paid for her crimes.”

Isard had been the wiliest, most double-dealing person in the whole Empire, with a twisted brain full of contingency plans. Mara wanted confirmation. Iella’s hurt cut deeper than Mara’s own, but Mara had spent five years on the run, living in poverty, dodging Isard’s agents before she’d finally decided she was done hiding and had fallen in with Karrde. She felt uncomfortable asking, but she had to know. “Are you sure she’s dead?”

“Yes, I’m sure,” Iella said with certainty. “But you’re right to ask. We thought she was dead at Thyferra, but she popped up again a few months ago. And not just her. The real article, and a clone.”

Mara sat up, horrified. “What?!” At Iella’s sober look, Mara groaned. “Bad enough that I had to kill a Skywalker clone, there was another Isard, too? Are you sure they’re both dead?”

“Wedge killed the clone,” Iella said with grim satisfaction. “She tried to escape the same way the real one had at Thyferra, but Wedge recognized the double bluff. He hit her with a concussion missile.” Iella glanced over at Mara, and her eyes were hard. “I killed the real one. She wounded me, but my blaster took her in the gut.” Iella firmed her lips together with a ferocity that Mara recognized. She’d seen it on the face of particularly outraged Imperial officers.

She’d seen it on her own face.

“I watched her bleed out, then we spaced the corpse.” Iella’s voice was cold.

“So that’s how she went,” Mara said with no small amount of satisfaction. Isard had deserved no better. “I had wanted to kill her myself. When we get out of here, I’ll have to send you and Antilles both a bottle of Whyren’s Reserve.”

Iella laughed. “Don’t bother buying two—or do, and just send them both to my place. Wedge doesn’t have his own apartment on Coruscant anymore, so when we’re both on-world he stays with me.”

The implications of the statement took a moment to process. “You and Antilles?” she asked, surprised—and oddly relieved. “I thought he was just a fighter jock. You know, live fast, die young and leave a tremendous explosion?” She had met Wedge Antilles a few times, but only briefly each time. Mara mostly remembered that he’d seemingly lacked all skill in subterfuge. She knew Skywalker considered him a close friend, though.

“It took us a while to get there,” Iella said, “but, yeah. Wedge and I are together.” She sighed. “Even if we’re almost never actually together.” She adjusted her posture again, grimacing. “I’m getting horribly stiff,” she muttered. “And don’t underestimate Wedge. He may have spent his entire adult life flying X-wings for the Rebellion and the New Republic, but he’s got depths. You remember all those drawings back at my apartment?”

Mara thought back. Yes, she thought. She did. There had been one of Coronet City, at least judging from the landmark buildings that framed the skyline. And another of a playground at the famous Treasure Ship Row, another Coronet City landmark. And other Corellia-based landmarks: The Gold Beaches, the great Victree Falls, still others she hadn’t immediately recognized. There’d been at least one of a small space station, probably a fueling station from its design, which had seemed incongruous with the others. “Antilles drew those? I didn’t know he had the talent.”

“If our lives had turned out differently, he probably would have ended up an architect working on projects in Coronet. I’d bet a project manager, he’s an excellent leader.” Iella smiled fondly. “He’s a good man. More comfortable inside a cockpit than he is outside one, but a good man.” Her voice faded slightly. “And I love him.”

Mara could feel the sincerity in those words, and she could feel wisps of the emotion beneath them. The affection, the longing. Iella _missed_ Wedge, missed his company and companionship, missed the sense of togetherness and place they had when they were together.

A pang snuck into her gut. A phantom pain of something that she was sure could never hurt her, because she’d never had it to begin with. But the pain _was_ there, mixed with longing and desire and _now_ was _not_ the time to grapple with it.

Iella laughed, and the sound was so unexpected that Mara’s head snapped up. “It’s funny really,” Iella continued. “After Diric died, Wedge was there for me. He and Corran helped keep my head up, helped keep me going. Made me want something more than just Isard dead at my feet, and eventually I started to think… started to imagine, even expect that we’d fall into a relationship. That we were already _in_ a relationship that neither of us had thought to acknowledge. But I could never push past Diric’s memory, I wasn’t ready yet, wasn’t comfortable. I was waiting for some sign that it was time to move on, to start over.” She smiled wryly at Mara. “I expected Wedge to give me that signal, and he never did. He didn’t want to put pressure on me, didn’t want to do anything that might be unethical, so he just hovered, waiting for me.”

Mara found herself curious. “So what happened?”

“It was after I killed Isard. After we both did. During that mission he and the Rogues went undercover and part of that cover was faking their death. I didn’t know he wasn’t really dead and all I could think was _I lost another one_. You think it would hurt less because we were never together but—” she shook her head “—trust me, it doesn’t. Then he was alive again and we were together again on Coruscant and,” Iella shrugged, “we were together, and alone, and I just kissed him.” She smiled at Mara. “Not much changed really. We’d already _been_ together in all but name. The Rogues had a pool going. Ooryl won.” She smiled fondly. “Nothing changed, and everything changed.”

Mara was quiet. Imperial stormtroopers had never shared intimate details of their personal lives on missions before. Karrde’s people were tightlipped about such things too, or flamboyantly open about it, and neither described this conversation with Iella. She was reminded of Gorb, who had taken her in and given her a room to stay in—and told her how the room belonged to his dead son, who had died in battle. It had been an intimate conversation, one that she hadn’t really appreciated at the time. She had been the Emperor’s Hand then, still learning who Mara Jade would be without Palpatine.

Iella’s foot nudged hers, and Mara’s attention returned to the Corellian. “Whenever you want to share your stories, I’ll listen.”

Mara understood instantly what Iella was doing. It was classic small-unit doctrine, building camaraderie between members who had to be able to trust and rely on one another. It was also perhaps the nicest thing anyone had ever said to her. She didn’t really have any stories, exactly, but for now a nod was enough. As an afterthought, she stretched out with the Force to check on the people still searching the _Falcon_ for stowaways, and found none. “It seems like we’re all clear.”

“Oh, great,” Iella said, grimacing as she struggled to her feet, wincing as joints cracked and muscles ached. “Let’s get out of here,” she muttered. “There’s only so long I can be locked in a smuggling compartment before I get angry and frustrated.”

Mara checked her blaster’s power pack as Iella saw to her own weapons. Fully charged. “I couldn't agree more.”

* * *

The hangar wasn’t empty. There was a guard standing watch at the end of the ramp, an old blaster rifle slung lazily at his side. He was fiddling with a datapad, not keeping a very close watch, but they’d searched the ship and Mara figured he must feel sure there was no one left aboard.

She shifted towards Iella. “One guard at the bottom of the ramp,” she murmured. “I don’t sense any others nearby, but there are people on the floors below us.”

They were both wearing breathing masks. Kessel’s thin atmosphere was breathable but not without difficulty, and the particulates in the air could be irritating to both the skin and eyes with prolonged exposure. The _Millennium Falcon_ sat atop one of Kessel’s many semi-covered landing pads, with an overhang that offered a modicum of protection to the ship’s more sensitive systems. The blue-white star that the planet orbited cast dim light that would stress the human eye.

All in all, Mara thought, there were worse planets in the galaxy, but not many.

Iella peeked around the corner, then nodded at Mara and pulled her light brown-blonde hair back into a tighter ponytail before checking her blaster rifle again. “We should avoid a fight if we can.”

“I think we can,” Mara agreed softly. Poking her head back to peer at the guard, she debated trying a mind-trick and decided against it. “I’m going to distract him,” she murmured, “and then we’re going to duck down the ramp. Do you have a light step?”

Iella grinned. “Do you? I always used to wonder if Corran was going to give us away when we went skulking around a smuggler’s den.”

“I used to skulk around the Imperial Palace,” Mara scoffed. She focused on the hangar, then reached out with the Force. There was a piece of metal, old and rickety, dangling precariously from the overhang, not that far from the exit that led into the Correctional Facility building. It took her two attempts before she could pluck it in a mental grip. Curling her fingers back towards her, she _tugged_ and—

The metal, which originally had been part of the particulate shield that prevented freighters like the _Falcon_ from suffering engine damage while on the ground, fell. It clattered to the ground, bouncing on its edge before twirling around before falling still.

The guard jumped, dropping his datapad. “Shavit!” he exclaimed as the pad cracked, and his groan was audible from the _Falcon._ “What was that?!” He bent down and retrieved the pad, then started to walk over to the fallen metal, peering up and shading his gaze with a hand, wincing as the blue-white light scorched his eyes. “I kriffing hate this place,” he muttered to himself.

Mara and Iella waited until he was at the edges of their view, still peering up, then took quick steps to the top of the ramp. Iella swung over, dropping down and ducking behind one of the Falcon’s landing struts. Mara followed quickly and they huddled together.

“Serth to control, one of the hangar shades has fallen,” the guard was saying into his comlink. “It almost hit me! Damn thing bounced like five meters!” They could see his legs as he walked first towards the exit, then started pacing between the exit and the _Falcon’s_ ramp. “Do I get hazard pay for this?”

They could overhear the tinny voice on the other side of the guard's comlink. “Are you getting shot at?”

“Well, no. There’s no one here.”

“Then you don’t get hazard pay. This isn’t a charity,” the voice came back, sarcastic and staticky on the other end of the link. 

“This whole planet ought to be enough for hazard pay,” the guard retorted. “Between the sun, the air, and the people it’s amazing anyone survives for long. You know, when I signed on with Tavira I didn’t sign up to garrison Kessel.”

“People usually don’t survive on Kessel for long,” the guard’s superior responded dryly. “That’s kind of the point. And when you signed on with Tavira, you signed on to do whatever she asked you to do, and you did because the pay is good and the perks are great.”

Mara reached up with the Force and found a second loose metal overhang, _pulling_ with the Force and—

“Stang!” the guard exclaimed, jumping and dropping his datapad a second time as the second metal panel struck the floor. This one fell flat, the sound of its impact with the floor a thunderous bang. “Another one fell!” He stepped around, out of their sight towards the fresh panel.

Iella nodded at Mara and the two women darted across, keeping the _Falcon_ between them and the guard, now faced away from them, still complaining loudly on his comlink. Their quiet footsteps were drowned out by his voice as his anger and annoyance grew louder and more pointed, and the responses of his superior grew equally so. By the time he turned back around, pacing angrily, now nearly shouting into the comlink, they were ducked into the corridor.

“Now what?” Iella asked.

“We need computer access,” Mara replied softly. “We need to access Vorru’s communications records, figure out what they did with Solo and Chewbacca, and see if any of my old Imperial codes work here to help us plan an escape.”

Iella nodded.

The corridor branched in multiple directions, and Mara and Iella took the ones where Mara couldn’t sense sapient life. The metal deck-plating looked like it came off an Old Republic transport, which given the age of the facility, it might actually be of the same make. The floors were scuffed with age and use, but the air much better than it had been outside and they both removed their masks. “We need an officer’s terminal,” Iella murmured. “Maybe one of the residence dorms, or secure offices.”

“It doesn’t seem like the people who took this place from the Empire have made full use of the facilities,” Mara murmured, comparing a map of the facility with her own sense of the living creatures that filled it. She’d gotten much better of late doing this, using her spatial senses and Force powers to give herself a mental map of potential (living) threats, better even than she’d been at it while she served Palpatine. “Let’s try over here,” she murmured, gesturing at what the map said had been an officers’ dormitory, but which the Force told her was abandoned.

It was a ten-minute walk, and they’d had to stop and wait for passers-by more than once. “It seems like Doole has lost control,” Iella said softly after the second group of guards marched on past, with a step that was more stormtrooper imitation than genuine article. “Vorru and Tavira may be letting him run this place still, but all the guards we’ve seen so far look more like pirates than former prisoners.”

“From what I know of Vorru,” Mara replied softly, “he’d prefer to co-opt than overthrow. I don’t know anything about Tavira though, what’s her history?”

“She was a concubine of the Moff of Ado sector,” Iella replied quietly. “Assassinated and connived her way into the role herself, then used her new position to try to advance herself further. She lost control of the planet a few years ago, and has been working to re-establish herself ever since.”

“Sounds dangerous.”

Iella shrugged. “She’s definitely charismatic,” she replied. “And resourceful, and conniving.”

“Sounds like Isard.”

“More charismatic, but in a personal appeal kind of way. Isard had a way of making people believe in her ability to dominate the galaxy that Tavira lacks. And Tavira is much less clever when it comes to conniving. She doesn’t think big enough.”

Mara nodded. There were few people who were as clever as Isard when it came to conniving, which was why Palpatine had tolerated her. Or so he’d told Mara, anyway. “We’re clear.” They jogged some of the way, dodging two more patrols, then ducked into a lift that would take them up to the dormitory levels. “These feel abandoned,” Mara explained, watching the numbers of the lift shift as they rose up. They each took one side of the lift door, and exited cautiously when it finally arrived.

There had been a battle on this floor, and it had never been fully cleaned up. There were blaster scorches all along the walls, some gouged quite deeply by heavy weaponry. The air was thinner too, and Mara and Iella put their masks back on. “They must not bother maintaining the air up here,” Iella said. She gestured at the battle damage. “This was part of the fight between the Imperials and the prisoners when Doole staged his revolt?” she asked Mara.

“I think so,” Mara replied. “These would’ve been the Imperial officers’ quarters, so when the Doole’s people took over they would’ve come up here to kill them and loot their possessions.”

“I hope they didn’t pull all the computers out of the wall,” Iella muttered.

* * *

The old Imperial garrison barracks had been looted beyond recognition. The walls had been pried open to rummage for expensive components; doors were laid off their hinges within or outside of different quarters. Blaster scars and worse darkened the old metallic structure. The building had been old and worn down even before Doole’s uprising, but the corridor-to-corridor fighting during that conflict ensured that this building would never be used again. There were too many loose components, sparking wires, weakened walls. Doole and his supporters had taken up residence elsewhere, parlaying their Spice-based fortunes into renovations of less grisly scenes.

Even still, there were places in the garrison that had been largely untouched. At the end of one of the halls was a set of senior officer quarters. These had been more heavily reinforced than the regular quarters, and while there were many signs that Doole’s men had attempted to breach them (their doors were scarred from blaster fire), it appeared that one of them remained sealed.

“Whoever lived here must not have been home when the uprising started,” Iella murmured as Mara pried off the outer casing of the door controls.

Mara nodded as she worked. These door latches were Old Republic vintage, which meant they should lack some of the more modern security that had been built into Empire-era facilities. Luckily, the controls were still powered; some of the buttons on the panel still gleamed green, though most of them had worn off. With a yelp she drew her hand back, the mild electric shock leaving her fingers tingling.

“What are you trying to do?”

Mara looked over at Iella, tilting her head to the side. “Is that hairpin you’re wearing made of wood?” she asked.

Iella frowned in confusion, then reached back and pulled the pin from her hair. She handed it to Mara as she tied her hair back into a new ponytail. “Here.”

Taking it, Mara wedged the wood against the console, using it to prod the controls carefully. “Palpatine had override codes programmed into just about everything,” she muttered softly.

“But this place predates the Empire,” Iella pointed out. “So there shouldn’t be any—”

The door popped open. Mara turned towards Iella, handing the Corellian back her hairpin. “Palpatine was Chancellor before he was Emperor,” she said. “And he was a Senator before that.” She stuck her fingers into the space between the two sliding parts of the door and pulled, forcing the door open halfway.

Iella stared at her. “That’s pretty scary,” she muttered, putting her hairpin back.

Mara shrugged, turning sideways to slide into the room. It was dark within—the lights didn’t respond when activated—so Mara activated the light on her blaster and swept it across the room. A second light joined hers as Iella slipped inside. They both stopped on the computer console in the corner, a small red light blinking to let them know it still had some power supply. “Hopefully its connection to the main computer didn’t get cut,” Mara said.

Iella nodded, walking over to the side of the room and pulling open the shades covering a window. Harsh blue-white light shone into the room, and they both winced and turned away. “I’ll search this place and see what I can find,” Iella volunteered. “You see what you can do with that terminal.”

“Right.” Mara holstered her blaster again, pulling the old chair out from the desk and settling into it. The terminal took a while to start, and by the time it was ready Iella had returned. She put a pair of goggles on the desk next to Mara. “What are these?” asked Mara.

“Infrared goggles. Probably for being able to see down in the Spice Mines,” Iella responded. “I found them in the closet, along with a few commander’s uniforms and some other private possessions.”

“Go grab me one of his rank plaques, there’s ID information encoded in those,” Mara suggested as she started to search through the extent of her computer access. She grinned as she found what she was looking for. “Good news. This system is still networked with the facility’s main computer, and that’s networked with both the HoloNet and traffic control.”

Iella handed Mara one of the officer’s rank plaques. “Here.”

Mara took it, examined it, then broke it open. From the split metal chrome she pried out a small cylinder, then plugged it into her datapad. “Commander Edverse,” she said. “Looks like he was one of the officers commanding the Spice mine security detail. Young for his rank, but he must have displeased someone to get assigned this detail.” She nodded at the infrared goggles. “Explains why he had those.”

“He must have died during the uprising,” Iella said.

Mara turned back to the computer, inputting the dead Commander’s information into the system. “It looks like Doole never purged all the old Imperial codes from the system,” she murmured. “From here, and with that,” she nodded at the chip she’d pulled from Edverse’s rank plaque, “I can override some of the security systems in the mines… that might come in handy later, although—”

One of the buttons on her keyboard started blinking green. “What’s that?” asked Iella.

“The holocomm is active,” Mara replied, already typing furiously. “Let’s see… if it was built after Palpatine served on the Senate’s military procurement committee, then—” There was a fuzz from the speakers. Mara grinned, working some more.

“. . . you ought to be able to handle a human and a Wookiee on your own, Captain Nive,” said a female voice, her tone bearing more than a hint of sarcasm. “Even if they are Han Solo and Chewbacca. It’s not like you had to deal with a Jedi.”

“Yes ma’am,” said a familiar, professional semi-military voice. “They’re in custody now. Doole had them sent to the Spice mines.”

Iella leaned towards Mara. “That’s the man who forced us down,” she murmured in Mara’s ear, listening. “Same voice.”

“I would prefer nothing happen to them,” said a new male voice with a smooth Corellian accent, confident and precise.

“And that’s Vorru,” murmured Iella. “I think the first voice must be Tavira.”

“Solo and the Wookiee are valuable assets,” Vorru continued. “They could be worth a great deal in ransom, and at the moment we’re not looking to make the New Republic an inexorable foe. They discovered us on Coruscant but we escaped, and I believe we escaped without causing any loss of life among the New Republic’s forces, which is a state I would prefer to maintain for now.”

Tavira sighed audibly. “Are you sure they’re there searching for Vorru?” she asked.

“Yes,” said Nive’s voice. “We confirmed that with a glitterstim interrogation of Solo, which Doole conducted.”

“I expect to be well compensated for the stress it put on me,” came Doole’s voice for the first time.

“Your glitterstim addiction is not my responsibility,” Vorru said coolly, “and I will not subsidize it. Captain Nive, if you would, please show Administrator Doole to the exit. I would like to speak with you privately.”

“Now wait just a minute, we had a deal—” there was the sound of scuffling and protesting, a door closing, and then all was quiet.

“He’s been removed, sir,” said Nive.

“Jacob,” came Tavira’s voice, like silk. “I want you to pick your two best squadrons and send them to meet _Invidious_ at the local rendezvous. You know the place. Repairs on _Invidious_ are complete and I believe it’s time for your pilots to receive long-overdue promotions. I also have some new clutch starfighters for your replacement pilots.”

Mara and Iella glanced at one another. “The local rendezvous?” asked Iella quietly.

Mara shrugged. “Good operational security. Nive is probably the only one here who knows where it is. Unless we can get aboard one of their ships, we’re not going to be able to trace them back to their source.”

“I wonder if we can get a tracking device aboard,” Iella mused.

Nive was speaking again. “Yes, Admiral,” he said. “I’ll send one of our flight cruisers. What do you want me to do with Solo and the Wookiee?”

“It would have been better were they not sent to the mines,” said Vorru. “The dangers down there are real. If anything happens to them, the New Republic will come down on Kessel with a fury. But what’s done is done. Hold them for now, they may be useful bargaining chips later.”

“Yes, sir. I’m sorry sir, Doole insisted.”

“Do try to make nice with Doole, if you can,” Vorru added. “His spice addiction does not addle him as much as it might appear at first, and he is an able administrator. More importantly, the New Republic does tacitly accept him as the legitimate ruling authority on Kessel.”

“Yes, sir. I’ll try, sir.”

“If you can’t, and the New Republic decides to take Solo’s imprisonment personally, make sure Doole receives the blame. You can point out he gave the order to imprison Solo in the mines, and that your men never fired on Solo when he arrived.”

“Yes sir.”

“You have done well, Jacob,” said Tavira. “I’ll be sending you and your people a large bonus for your work.”

“Thank you, Admiral.”

There was a click and the HoloNet link was terminated. Mara leaned back in the chair, Iella standing beside her with a thoughtful expression. “So, what now?” Iella asked.

“We can’t leave Solo and Chewbacca in the mines,” Mara said. “And I’d like to try to get out of here and surreptitiously follow Nive’s pilots when they head off to their rendezvous with Tavira.”

Iella turned and sat on the desk, frowning. “Our overall objective is to capture Vorru and Eliezer,” she said. “Ideally Tavira also, but Vorru and Eliezer are more important. Right now we know they’re together, and we know they’re aboard _Invidious_ , so some way to keep tabs on their position would be ideal.” She sighed softly. “But we do need to get Solo and Chewbacca first,” she said with reluctant assurance. “I promised Councilor Organa Solo I wouldn’t let anything happen to her husband.”

Mara doubted Skywalker would be too happy either. “Maybe we will have an opportunity to slip a tracking device onto one of their ships on the way back out,” she suggested. “In the meantime, let’s see what else I can use this computer to do to help us get Solo and Chewbacca back.”


	26. Chapter Twenty-Five

“What’s Coruscant like?” Kyp asked. Even the pitch-black darkness couldn’t dampen the kid’s enthusiasm. If it wasn’t so exhausting—and distracting—Han would probably find it endearing.

“It’s just a big city, kid, people and buildings from horizon to horizon.” He slid his fingers through the crushed rock that lined the floor of the mine, his numbed fingers searching for strands of glitterstim. All around them, other bodies moved, silent and numbed even worse than Han’s fingers.

Chewie made a low, plaintive sound, and Han sympathized. His fingers weren’t calloused enough for this. On the bright side, he had no intention to be working down here for long enough to get the calluses that would make it easier.

The only enthusiasm in the whole, expansive mine shaft was Kyp. Somehow no matter how many years the kid had spent in this darkness, with only the brief breaks for meals and sleep to indulge in even dim light, he still had the energy for eager questioning. The fact that Kyp had already managed to find enough glitterstim fragments to account for Han and Chewie’s required sum, in addition to his own, built a knot of suspicion in Han’s gut.

It would be just like the universe to drop _another_ Force-sensitive teenager on him, wouldn’t it. Of course it would. It wasn’t enough that Luke Skywalker had fallen into his life and never wandered out again, although the universe compensated Han for that by using Luke to introduce Leia, thus giving him a wonderful wife and brother-in-law. He’d even forgive the universe for dropping Jacen and Jaina on him.

(Okay, fine, he admitted silently. The twins were at least half his own fault. And he wouldn’t trade them for anything.)

But now to add _another_ Force-strong teenager, if that was what Kyp was? Han wasn’t sure if he ought to be grateful or paranoid. He had more luck finding Force-strong individuals than Luke, and he wasn’t even trying.

“Wow,” Kyp said. “I remember Feiya on Deyer. It was on a lagoon, in the middle of a giant ocean. I can’t imagine a city as big as that ocean.”

Han grimaced. Deyer didn’t have _any_ cities now. The Empire had bombarded them all from orbit after the planet had issued a formal condemnation of the Empire and formally seceded in protest after Alderaan’s destruction. Best not to point that out, he thought.

“So, kid,” he said instead. “Tell me more about what else is down here, and the daily routine.”

Kyp slid next to him, drawing still more glitterstim fibers from the layer of rocks on the ground. Han could feel the pouch they used growing fuller and fuller and became even more convinced that Kyp was Force-sensitive. It was either that or the kid could see in the dark.

“When we finish our shift,” Kyp explained, “they’ll bring us back to the mining cars and ship us back up to the barracks. They’ll feed us, ration bars if we’re lucky or nutrigruel if we’re not, then they’ll put us to sleep with a somno-inducer. In the morning they’ll give us some more food and send us back down and we’ll start over again.”

Han lowered his voice. “Can you tell me more about the layout? Any computer terminals we might access?”

Kyp turned and Han could feel the kid’s eyes on him in the dark. “Maybe,” he said finally. “Why?”

“Look, kid,” Han said, wishing desperately he could see and give Kyp one of his patented looks of entreaty. Leia claimed to have taught it to him, and Han let her claim credit, but the life of a smuggler gave plenty of opportunities to develop persuasion skills. “We need to get a signal out. My ship is still here, and if we can get to it, I can get you, and me, and Chewie all out of here. I’ll take you to Coruscant and you can see the city for yourself.”

He wasn’t sure if Iella and Mara would need help finding them, but Han wasn’t about to take any chances. A few minutes with the computer and he could make sure Iella and Mara would know where they were… though it might be a bit messy.

Kyp was silent for a long moment, breathing quietly. “I can get to it, if you tell me what to do,” he said finally. “I can resist the somno-inducer.”

Han blinked in the darkness. Somno-inducers weren’t particularly common around the galaxy, but they were sometimes used in prisons to put prisoners to sleep at night. They wouldn’t keep the subjects asleep indefinitely—they worked by amplifying the body’s natural fatigue, and if the subject wasn’t fatigued, or was sufficiently amped on adrenaline, they could resist its effects. But that didn’t seem to be what Kyp was implying. “I won’t be able to?” he asked.

Kyp's voice came back from the darkness after a moment. “No, probably not. I’m the only one down here who seems to be able to after a hard day’s work in the mines.”

If Han had needed further reason to suspect Kyp was Force-sensitive, he now had it. Instead of bringing it up, he just nodded, then remembered that Kyp couldn’t see the nod. “If I tell you _exactly_ what to do, do you think you’ll be able to do it?” he asked instead.

“I’ve been a prisoner on Kessel for years,” Kyp said, his tone dipping into a quiet, calm rage that Han could sympathize all-too-well with. “I’m really, _really_ good at following orders. And if you think it’ll get us out of here, there’s _nothing_ I won’t do.” His tone shifted from hateful to a mourning lament that Han could also sympathize all-too-well with. “Besides. I’d like to see Coruscant. Maybe look up my brother.” He turned wistful. “Maybe see the ocean again.”

“Don’t worry kid,” Han said with more confidence than he felt. “Chewie and me have been in tougher spots than this one.”

Chewbacca quietly growled his agreement.

Even in the dark Han could feel Kyp staring at them, blank-faced. “If that was a recruitment pitch, it wasn’t a very good one.”

* * *

Every night started the same. The guards would bring them up to the barracks, stunners in hand, and push them all into the mess. They’d eat the slop they were given, the tasteless, textureless nutrigruel that provided them with enough strength to see through the day, but only just. There would be an occasional fight, the rage and despair and hopelessness of the prisoners boiling over, fighting back if only for a change of pace; Kyp joined in sometimes, just to _feel_ something other than the monotonous, dull, embittered and numbed sensation of life on Kessel.

That had attracted him to Han and Chewie. They were new. Lively. Hopeful. Defiant. On Kessel, those emotions died eventually. If it wasn’t after a week, it was after a month. Or a year. Or a decade. Those who could resist despair were few; Kyp could vaguely remember a cadre of Corellians who had still had the ability to laugh and plot, but they were all gone now.

Once they’d eaten their fill, they were herded into the bunks and the somno-inducer activated. Aliens who could resist it were always taken away; humans never could. Kyp could hear the sudden calming of Han’s breathing, of Chewbacca’s breathing, as they were drawn inexorably into sleep, unable to resist the device.

Every night he’d heard the hum of the somno-inducer. Every night he’d felt it amplify his fatigue, press down, make his eyelids heavy. He’d fade quickly into a restless sleep, plagued by chaotic dreams. The worst dreams weren’t the ones of his parents’ deaths, or the ones of the destruction of Deyer, or even the ones of his brother being taken away by the Imperial stormtroopers, before Doole’s revolt. The _worst_ dreams were the ones of the Spice mines, the gravel under his fingertips, the filaments of glitterstim between his fingers.

He’d learned to resist the somno-inducer. It had been a slow learning process, one of months, perhaps years—who could say, when every day was the same. There was an ad-hoc calendar the prisoners kept so that they could know when their prison terms were at an end, but few ever reached the end of a term, and Kyp himself had never committed a crime in the first place. He’d just been caught in the wake of his parents’ resistance, resistance that he reminded himself _every single day_ to hold on to. Resistance fed by the memory of Zeth’s kidnapping. Resistance because it was the only thing that felt alive down here.

The guards didn’t keep a close watch at night. There wasn’t any point; once the somno-inducer had put the prisoners out, they were out. He slipped off the bunk, peering in the very dim light out towards the rest of the complex. The lift shaft that went all the way back up into the main base structure was at the end of the corridor, green and red lights gleaming above the lift doors. Next to it was the security station, a room that would be sealed shut with a single guard inside during the day.

The Empire had been diligent about keeping it properly guarded even at night, but Doole’s men were not so careful. They trusted the somno-inducer more than they should, and Kyp crept towards the station and pushed the door open enough to slide through. He knew the basics of how to use computers, though it had been a long time since he’d operated one, and Han’s instructions had been _very_ precise. He concentrated, focusing on the memory of those instructions, watching Han’s hands as they moved over the panel. He closed his eyes, taking a breath, his hands guiding their way over the control panel without reliance on his sight.

 _“We don’t need to do much,”_ Han had told him _. “Just get a message out, and hopefully get a message in.”_

He accessed the station’s communications system, then carefully input the string of numbers and letters that Han had made him memorize and then recite back a dozen times. The phrase Han had told him to enter next was gibberish, but Kyp dutifully entered it in anyway.

He waited, as Han had told him to. It took a few minutes. Maybe a lot of minutes, Kyp wasn’t sure… time could be funny down in the mines.

WILL COME TOMORROW. YOU’LL KNOW WHEN.

He blinked at the message a few times, then did what Han had told him to do to reset the terminal. Slipping back to the bunks, he hoisted himself quietly into his bunk and tried not to let the words get him too excited.

When was the last time he’d _anticipated_ tomorrow, he wondered?

It was the first night he’d ever felt eager while letting the somno-inducer draw him into sleep.

* * *

Han found himself jostled awake and forcibly bodied into the mess, shoved towards the slop that the guards laughably called food. He thought of his kitchen on Coruscant, of what he’d make for the kids for breakfast—of the fit they would have thrown if he’d fed them anything like the grey, tasteless gruel in his bowl.

Chewbacca yowled in pain as he was shoved into the mess, grunting as he slammed into the table next to Han. The other prisoners were already eating, and Han searched until he found Kyp. The dark-haired teenager didn’t have much of a sabacc face, Han noticed dourly, anticipation and excitement were both plain on his face. But after hearing Kyp’s story, and seeing the dull, almost lifeless gazes that the other prisoners never seemed to lose, he was just glad the kid could still smile.

“We’re going to take him with us,” he murmured to Chewie. “The kid doesn’t belong down here with all these criminals.”

The Wookiee growled softly in agreement, his large head nodding subtly.

Han sighed. “Right. Well, stick close to him and me, Chewie, and let’s find out what the score is.”

The buzzer that signaled the end to breakfast went off and the guards started moving them all towards the mining cars that would take them down into the Spice mines. Kyp managed to shimmy his way through the mass of prisoners and guards, sliding over next to Han and Chewie with the ease of long practice. A shove at his back sent Han stumbling into the nearest mining car, and Chewie and Kyp clambered in after him, clustering together at the end of the car, the lights growing dimmer and dimmer as the car started moving down into the dark.

Han waited until it was pitch dark before leaning towards Kyp. “Did you mana—”

Kyp’s excited whispers cut him off. “I got a message back,” he said, leaning into Han’s shoulder to make sure the sound didn’t carry, and to be heard over the steady, mechanical grating of the mining car. “Your friends said they’d come today, and we’d know when.”

Han frowned. They’d now returned to total darkness, the sense of stone just above his head, the somewhat moist smell of the stone and gravel growing stronger. But that didn’t seem to dampen Kyp’s enthusiasm.

“Do you know what that means?” Kyp asked excitedly.

“Shhh,” Han shushed him, feeling paranoid. In the dark, and with the noise of the mining car as it slid over the rail down into the mine, he couldn’t be sure no one had snuck near them; he hoped Chewie’s sense of smell wasn’t too dulled by the scents of the mine. When Kyp had gone quiet, he considered what Kyp had actually told him. “Well,” he murmured softly, “that means they have computer access and know where we are. Just be ready today.”

“Oh, I’m ready for anything,” Kyp said with fervent enthusiasm.

Chewbacca rumbled his agreement, thumping his big hand on both of their backs.

* * *

The descent down into the mines was slow, but everything felt new. Kyp’s eyes were useless in the complete darkness, but his other senses all felt alive and sharp. The world may be dark, but there was color to it again, and imagination which had long since turned grey and dull had been sparked back to life. _A city that stretched from horizon to horizon,_ he thought. What would that be like? How many people would there be? Would they be packed together tight, or would they each be able to move? And the sun… what did a sunrise look like in such a place?

Or who were Han and Chewbacca’s friends? The mysterious figure on the far side of the computer, who Han had such faith could come for them, despite all the guards they’d have to sneak past? What did he have to do to be ready?

He didn’t even notice as he finished filling his entire daily quota of glitterstim filaments in less than an hour, his calloused fingers pushing yet another filament into the now tightly-packed pouch. _Oops,_ he thought. _Should have worked more slowly._

Next to him, Han was grumbling and cursing with frustration, his blind hands groping in the dark. The Wookiee was doing a little better; his fur was better protection from the rough, rocky ground than Han’s now very torn pants. Kyp’s own knees were calloused over with tough skin, to match his fingers.

“Stop complaining and get back to work!” called one of the guards.

Han, not even sure where the instruction had come from, threw a profane hand gesture into the air, and Chewie let out an annoyed growl.

Kyp heard heavy booted footsteps coming their way; a guard wearing a pair of infrared goggles that let him see in the dark. “You’re new here, aren’t you,” the guard said, looming over Han. “Maybe we should send you deeper into the mines, hmm? Let you get a taste of Kessel’s natives—or let them get a taste of you.”

“Oh yeah?” said Solo, and Kyp could hear the frayed temper in the other man’s voice, fed by hours of largely fruitless searching for the glitterstim filaments among the thin layer of rocks under their knees. “You think that’ll make your bosses happy, you feeding the workers to the spiders?”

“Down _here,_ prisoner, I am the boss.” Kyp heard the telltale sound of knuckles cracking. “Ain’t no one tells me what to do.”

“I’m sure Doole would be pleased to hear—” Kyp heard the all-too-familiar sound of a gloved fist striking an uncovered cheek. Han’s voice cut off with a grunt of pain, and all hell broke loose.

Chewbacca might not be able to see, but he had enough of a sense of smell to know where the guard was standing. His huge arms reached out in the darkness, found a human form, and heaved it through the air. There was a sound of a body falling a half-dozen meters away, the now prone form smacking into two prisoners who had been working closer to the cave wall. The prisoners, seeing an opportunity to vent old frustrations, immediately set upon the guard, hitting him and occasionally each other in their blind flailing.

Han rolled to his feet, clustered near Chewbacca. Kyp stepped near, felt Han grip his back. “It’s me! And the kid,” Han told Chewie.

Chewbacca growled an annoyed response. All around them prisoners had joined in a growing, aimless brawl, tossing punches blindly at anyone who came close. In the darkness, few made contact, and the first whines of blasters set on stun quickly settled the fight. Blue blasts gleamed in the dark, the temporary glow from the weapons fire making the glitterstim in the walls gleam momentarily in response, light echoing light. A blaster bolt struck Chewie and knocked the big Wookiee on his back, groaning and huffing for breath.

“Don’t fire your blasters you idiots!” yelled one of the guards. “You’ll make the glitterstim ripen early! Do you want to be the one to tell Doole that you wasted all the Spice in this shaft just to subdue a prisoner!” There was a heavy smacking sound. “He’ll re-assign you from guard to prisoner, and that’s if you’re lucky!”

A second voice—presumably the guard who had fired—responded with a nervy-sounding, “Y-yes sir.”

“Get the prisoners back to work, especially the Wookiee. We wouldn’t want to miss our quota—”

An alarm sounded. The klaxon echoed through the mine back from the entrance to the mine shaft, amplified by the stone and the tight confines. There was the sound of cursing and annoyance as the guards yelled at each other, confused. “What is that?”

“I don’t know, my comlink isn’t working,” another guard called back over the screaming klaxon.

“Guard detail calling security office! We’ve got an alarm down here. What is it for?”

The only response from the guard’s comlink was extended static. Kyp stared around in confusion. Was this what they were supposed to wait for?

Han clearly thought it was. “Get down!” he said, dropping down next to Chewbacca and pulling Kyp down with him. Kyp fell on the Wookiee, making them both grunt. Down the corridor there was the sound of scuffling; a body hit the floor with a hefty grunt. A blaster fired, the blue glow of a stun blast sending another shiver of light echoing down the corridor in response.

“Shavit! What did I just tell you about not firing your blaster?”

“It wasn’t me!”

“Well, when I get my hands on whoever it was I swear—”

“Funny thing about infrared masks,” a voice Kyp _knew_ he didn’t recognize said casually. It took him a second to realize why the voice sounded so strange—it reminded him of his mother’s voice. It was a _woman’s_ voice. But there were no women in this mining detail, they were kept separate—

There was a _snap-hiss_ and a steady blue light filled the space. Kyp’s eyes hurt from the sudden, unexpected glow, lifting his hand to shade them as he adjusted, but the guards had it worse—they grappled with their masks, tearing them off with curses.

All around them the cave started to radiate light. It started surrounding the figure, the glow of her laser sword reaching the glitterstim filaments in the wall and ground; they reacted with a responding inner light, making it seem as if she were standing in the center of a glowing sphere that circled over her head and below her feet, radiating outwards… and growing. The light-sensitive glitterstim filaments, so hard to find in the dark, were crackling and fizzling, glowing a pearlescent blue that matched the gleam of the woman’s laser sword.

The woman had a blaster in her free hand and two quick blaster shots took the two nearest guards before they got their masks off, sending them to the ground. Ripening glitterstim made the floor below them glow, and before long the entire cave was an eerie, shining blue. The prisoners nearest the guards responded first. Now able to see and in a confined space with their captors, they grabbed the closest guards, fists flying.

The head guard had his mask off and was swinging his blaster towards the unknown woman. She darted forwards, dodging to the right, and brought the lightsaber up, driving it through the man’s chest. With a gurgling sound he fell to the ground, and then she was standing over Han and Chewie, staring at Kyp with an odd expression, her blade casting them in blue light. “Come on,” she said, never taking her eyes off Kyp. “Iella’s waiting for us at the security station.”

Kyp stared up at her, at the gleaming laser sword in her hand, then down the mine shaft. The light from the blade was continuing to reach more glitterstim filaments. Some of the prisoners were consuming them and that meant it was a good idea to get away as quickly as possible. Prisoners hopped up on glitterstim didn’t happen often, but it happened often enough that he was fully aware of all the possible consequences.

Han pulled himself to his feet, then helped the shaken Chewbacca, who was still obviously groggy after sustaining the stun blast. The light from the cave walls around them was starting to dim, as the ripened spice lost its potency, leaving the woman’s laser sword the only brilliant source of light. “Do you have any idea how much all this Spice was worth?” Han asked the woman, sounding stunned.

Kyp had no idea. He assumed it had to be worth a lot.

“Do you care?” asked the woman, using her lightsaber like a torch to maintain light even as the spice illumination was fading, leading them back towards the mining cars at a jog. As they moved into areas farther away from the combat, the spice around them was triggered by her lightsaber, sending another pulse of light down the cave ahead of them.

Some of the other prisoners followed; the smart ones had stolen the guards’ infrared masks but weren’t using them yet. The woman had one herself, hanging around her neck.

Chewie growled something Kyp didn’t understand. “The man I _used_ to be would have,” Han muttered. “But still, that’s gotta be millions of credits worth of glitterstim she just burned!” 

The woman shrugged. “Tens of millions, probably. It’s their own fault for putting you down here. Come on, let’s go, we don’t have a lot of time.”

* * *

Mara held the lightsaber up, warding off the prisoners as the mining car started to run. “We’re taking the first one,” she said warningly as Han got the thing moving, the agonizing scraping of the rails forcing her to yell. She pulled a few glow-rods out of her pack and threw them into the middle of the crowd of prisoners. “Don’t waste those!”

The prisoners, offered a source of light, scrambled to claim their prizes and the guards’ fallen weapons. Distracted, by the time they were ready to turn their attention back to Mara and the others, the mining car was already moving away and up at a brisk and hastening pace. Mara double-tapped on the stud of her lightsaber to deactivate the blade, then ducked down under the rock overhang and fell in next to Chewbacca. The Wookiee wrapped one powerful arm around her to make sure she didn’t fall out.

“I’m fine,” she batted the Wookiee’s huge arm away, making sure she was indeed secure in the rickety mining car. “As fine as anyone can be in one of these things, anyway.”

The Wookiee brayed his amusement.

She felt the kid’s eyes on her. When she’d come down here, she’d expected to be rescuing a party of _two,_ not _three,_ and she could feel the hint of power, untrained, unharnessed, hanging around him, an aura of potential. “I’m Kyp!” he said, staring at her with unrestrained awe. “Are you Han’s wife?”

Chewie wuffled another laugh, and she saw Kyp’s enthusiasm abruptly wane as her gaze narrowed threateningly.

“That’s Mara, kid,” Han supplied. “My wife is a little smaller and much scarier.”

Mara didn’t feel like a round of casual introductions. “When we get to the top we’ll have to move fast. We can set up some diversions, but we will probably have to fight our way to the _Falcon._ ” The mining car jolted, and they all jerked except Kyp. Mara took a breath. “Iella and I intercepted a communication from Moff Vorru to the forces in charge here. They’re loyal to Tavira.”

“Anything we can use to hunt Vorru and Cracken’s escapee down?” Han asked.

“Maybe. Some of the forces here are going to reinforce Vorru, so if we can get a tracking device on one of the fighters or on their escort carrier we can use that to find him.” The car was starting to slow now as they neared the top; light from above was beginning to trickle down. After another minute the car slid into its berth at the barracks. They all scrambled out awkwardly, passing the stunned forms of the two guards who previously had been on watch.

Iella was in the security booth, equipped for combat. “I went scrounging,” she said as they arrived, “and grabbed us a stash of ration bars for later. Detonators and tracking devices are in the knapsacks.” Her eyes went to Kyp. “I see we have a new recruit.” She extended her hand to him, and he took it, seeming awed. “I’m Iella Wessiri. I work for the New Republic,” Iella said.

“I’m Kyp. Kyp Durron. My, uh, parents were dissidents,” Kyp said.

“Nice to meet you, Kyp,” Iella replied with a kindly nod. She turned to the others; behind her Mara was stepping to replace her in the security booth. Kyp wandered after her, watching Mara as she worked while Iella talked to Han and Chewie. “We’re going to set up a series of diversions, triggering base alarms to announce prisoner riots,” Iella said. “Try to move as many guards as we can out of our path.” She jerked a thumb behind her. “When we leave we’ll send the cars back down and let the prisoners here run wild behind us. That should keep the guards too busy to stop us.”

“Right,” Han said. “What about these ships you want to track? Can we get to them?”

Mara ignored the conversation. She brought up the computer’s administrative access, and inputted her Imperial override codes—the Emperor’s own. She took a moment to examine a map of the entire facility, noting each of the mine shafts that descended down into the mines and their location compared to the _Falcon’s_ landing pad. Then she checked to see where Doole’s forces—and Tavira’s forces—were being garrisoned.

“Ready?” she called over her shoulder. Kyp was still behind her, watching her work.

“Ready!” called Iella and Han; Iella sounded calmly professional, while Han teemed with obvious frustration. Iella had handed Han back his blaster pistol, and Chewbacca was now armed with his bowcaster. Both looked haggard but sharp. “I hate Kessel,” muttered Han.

Chewie growled his agreement, checking his weapon for damage, then nodding his big head.

“Good,” Mara said darkly. Then she started wreaking her own brand of havoc, disabling systems and triggering alarms. All the other mining shafts suddenly found their mining cars disabled, refusing to respond to commands, and that was paired with the sudden facility-wide wail of the prisoner riot alarm. “That ought to keep them busy,” she muttered. “Come on.”

* * *

The alarms blared as they moved. Every so often Mara would hold up a hand and they’d all skitter to a stop, ducking into a corridor or hiding in a room, waiting for the sound of running boots to subside. Mara and Iella led them, Iella keeping an eye on the map of the facility while Mara used her abilities to make sure they didn’t stumble across trouble.

It took Kyp only a few minutes to realize what she was doing, and took him a few minutes more to realize that no other member of their party could do it.

Except him.

He could still remember the first time he realized he was different. Working with a group of prisoners who he’d semi-befriended, they’d been astonished by the sheer number of glitterstim filaments he could collect in an hour when he put his mind to it. He’d just shrugged and said he could hear them calling when he listened. Most of them had just laughed and chalked it up to a child’s luck, but one of the men had taken him aside, lowering his voice. _“You shouldn’t advertise that you can do that,”_ he’d said. _“The Empire has already taken enough from you. If the guards realize you have abilities, they’ll take even more.”_

He hadn’t understood what the man had meant, but he’d known enough about the Empire to take the warning seriously. As the years passed, his powers had grown, giving him useful skills beyond just finding glitterstim. He always knew where the guards were, could sometimes instinctively know what they were thinking. He knew which days he should avoid the more dangerous spurs of the mines. Most alarming was the recent discovery that he could convince the guards to let him do things by commanding it with the right tone of voice, a commanding timbre he had only recently grown into.

Mara was like him.

The realization was stunning, an eye-opening awakening to what he might be capable of. She clearly was more accustomed to using her abilities than he was; her ability to sense the guards as they approached was significantly better than his, polished with age, experience and, he suspected, deliberate training.

“Move, move,” Iella urged as they traveled through more of the facility, passing through sections Kyp had never seen. The lights were still thankfully dim—the few times Kyp had seen the surface of Kessel he’d been forced to shield his gaze from the planet’s glaring star—but Kyp really only exited the barracks and mines for his occasional lessons with Kassar and Myda Forge, who had continued his education after the deaths of his parents. The Forges hadn’t been equipped or trained to teach a child through all his years of primary schooling—their job was to prepare adult prisoners for release, not educate children who had no scheduled release date—but they had done their best. Each trip to their housing unit had required protective lenses to avoid searing his unaccustomed gaze, and there had been days in the mines he would have been near blind even if there _had_ been light to see.

Mara stopped at a doorway that led towards the hangars, fiddling with the keypad next to the lock. She got into the process of inputting a sequence before Iella’s yelp of alarm—followed by Chewbacca’s bellow—heralded the sudden end of her efforts. Mara was already in motion, dropping and rolling to avoid the sudden burst of blaster fire from down the corridor, coming up in a crouch with her blaster rifle held in a solid two-handed grip. She shot back at the collection of semi-professional mercenaries who had stumbled unexpectedly over them, but it was the explosive snarl of Chewbacca’s bowcaster that ended the fight.

“Everyone okay?” asked Han, and Kyp realized that the older man had instinctively put himself between Kyp and their foes. Kyp blinked a few times, staring at Han’s back with an awed confusion.

“I’m fine,” he said.

Mara grunted, looked back at the door and sighed. “Kriff,” she muttered, peering at the ruined keypad, at least one blaster bolt having struck it directly. “Okay. Option two.” She handed her rifle to Han then drew her laser sword, igniting it with a _snap-hiss_ before driving it into the door, her expression tight with exertion as she started carving through the reinforced armor.

“How long?” asked Iella, glancing at her, her blaster rifle still covering the corridor behind them. “We’re exposed here.”

“I know,” Mara grunted with annoyance, the metal of the door starting to turn liquid hot as she twisted the blue blade.

Han turned to Kyp. “You know how to use a blaster, kid?”

Kyp shook his head, stepping away from the door as it started to radiate heat. Mara’s red-gold hair gleamed in the glow from the newly molten metal of the door and he turned away, the glow starting to become painful. “Uh, no,” he replied belatedly to Han.

“Here,” Han said, handing him the rifle. He quickly gave Kyp a tutorial in its use. “Just don’t _ever_ point it at one of us,” Han glowered, “even if you have no intent to use it. Accidents happen with blasters and I’ve seen more than a few people get shot by their friends.”

Kyp nodded choppily, pointing it down the corridor.

“And don’t shoot unless you see us shooting first,” Han added. “How long, Red?”

“Stop… asking me that…” Mara glowered, sweating. The hinges of the door came free, falling at her feet. She jumped back as the door sagged, and Kyp could feel her _push_ , sending the metal door to collapse inwards, away from them. There was a shuddering crash and Kyp glanced over; saw overheated, molten metal burning into the floor as Mara took a deep breath and pushed her hair out of her eyes.

Iella ducked past her through the now open doorway, then waved the others to follow. Mara followed last, re-igniting her laser sword and holding it up defensively to ward off any potential pursuing fire. To Kyp’s relief, none came. “I can’t close this door and lock it behind us,” Mara pointed out. “So we might have more pursuit, especially if they’ve figured out all our riot alarms were bogus.”

“ _Were_ bogus,” said Han with a scowl. “Who knows if they’re still bogus. I can assure you that after one day in the mines I was already up for a good prison riot.”

Chewbacca growled his frustrated agreement.

Kyp shook his head, pointing his rifle at the floor as they moved. “After a few months prisoners mostly lose the will to fight. Those that don’t end up dead, one way or another. Besides, no one wants to jeopardize their chance at release.” He felt all four sets of eyes looking at him and he shrugged self-consciously. “It’s true.”

Han turned his head and glared at Iella, whose grimace was more pained than Kyp thought was warranted.

“Enough chatter,” Mara’s tone was an order and one she expected to be followed. “Move.”

She seemed not to even notice Han’s irritated glare; with a gruff, annoyed sound Han pushed Kyp after Iella. “Keep your head down, kid,” he grunted.

The instinctive care from Han was alien to Kyp. It reminded him of Kassar Forge; the man’s clear, constant exhaustion had never prevented him from taking a minute to spend with Kyp. Some of Kyp’s fondest memories were of Kassar’s tiny dining room, of the expensive hot chocolate that Kassar could occasionally offer that Kyp had always savored. Han’s gaze was oddly like Kassar’s; exhausted but determined to offer him the protection and affection he could.

Part of Kyp oddly resented it, just as he’d always oddly resented Kassar. But he craved the fragments of affection too much not to take what he was offered.

It wouldn’t last. It never did.

Moving through these halls, surrounded by a party with blasters, brought back memories, and all of them were bad. The Imperial Correctional Facility had been built with the traditional Old Republic modular style, which meant each corridor looked almost exactly like each other corridor; each room was shaped almost exactly like each other room. Even as they moved further from the places with which he was most familiar, the sounds of boots ringing on impact with the floor, of blasters held in fumbling hands, of nervy breathing… occasionally, the sound of distant combat.

Half a decade before, when Doole had staged his great prison revolt and seized control of the facility from the Empire, the only difference had been the bodies. The Imperial corpses, broken stormtrooper armor, the cries of the wounded and dying. The sounds of victory from Doole’s ad-hoc army, looting the corpses and everything else they could get their hands on. The days of slow, ruthless re-imposition of order; the replacement of the Imperial stormtroopers with Doole’s very own, just as ruthless, just as brutal equivalent. The weeks of executions, by firing squad or by hanging, of any and everyone who had collaborated with the Imperials or—just as common—anyone who had wealth that Doole or his men wanted to loot.

“This way, kid,” Han grabbed the scruff of his collar and pulled him along the rest of their party. At the end of the corridor was the gleam of blue-white sunlight and Kyp had to shield his eyes from the glare.

“Stop!” Mara pulled them to a halt before they could exit into the hangar. Kyp could see—despite the glare, peeking through narrow slits—an old freighter sitting on its landing struts. Mara put her hand in front of Han and Chewbacca, staring at it. “They’re waiting for us.”

“True,” called a voice Kyp remembered all too well from his memories and nightmares. A man, armed with a double-barreled blaster pistol held in a comfortable two-handed grip, stepped in front of the _Falcon’s_ landing ramp. Kyp hissed at the sight of him; the man who had led Doole’s mercenaries during the uprising, the man who had made the list of all the prisoners deemed trusties by Doole’s law. The man who had ordered the death of his parents.

Arb Skynxnex.

* * *

“What do you want,” Han asked with a scowl. “Here to offer us a fond farewell?”

Skynxnex’s smile was as Han remembered it. Small, humorless, with an edge of viciousness that he couldn’t quite hide. There had always been something unnerving about him. There always had been. Han had always known he was a killer, but that hadn’t bothered him so much at the time—most people who worked for Jabba were—but now Han found Skynxnex’s gaze deeply unsettling. He wasn’t sure if he ought to chalk that up to Skynxnex becoming more dangerous and unrestrained as he’d become more powerful, or if it was something that had changed in Han himself.

Skynxnex alone would be bad enough. Even more unfortunate was the fact that he was flanked by multiple guards, armed and armored.

Han held his pistol in a firm grip, keeping it pointed at the ground but within a single easy motion of flicking up to Skynxnex. Beside him Chewie was less subtle, his bowcaster twitching.

“Hardly,” Skynxnex said. His own blaster was, like Han’s, pointed at the floor, and, like Chewie’s, twitching aggressively. “You see, Solo, I can’t let you leave.” He gestured to the side and a collection of additional guards could be heard waiting close by. “Doole doesn’t want you to leave because he has an old grudge; he’s never forgiven you for ruining his relationship with Jabba. And Vorru doesn’t want you to leave because he doesn’t want you interfering with his plans.” His smile grew thinner and more sharklike. “Doole wants you dead. Vorru wants you alive.” His eyes shifted to look at Mara and Iella, his gaze lingering on Mara and her lightsaber briefly. “Neither of them mentioned your companions, though.”

“Taking money from all sides then, Skynxnex?” Han asked.

Skynxnex shrugged. “I don’t see any reason not to maximize my earning potential. Vorru pays very well.”

Mara wagged her lightsaber in the air, the blade humming as it moved. “Forgive me for interrupting,” she put in sarcastically, “but what makes you think you can stop us?”

The scarecrow-like man looked at her, slow and confident. “Solo is predictable. He wouldn’t leave his ship behind. So I’ve always known you were coming here.” He smiled now, a wolf’s toothy smile. “Try me.”

Han thought Mara might take him up on that option. He glanced at Kyp to make sure the kid was in a safe location just in case she did, and found the kid staring at Skynxnex with a lethal glare that Han had seen before. It took him a second to place it and when he did his gut tightened with sudden worry: Kyp’s expression exactly matched Leia’s from Bespin, when she’d glared at Darth Vader.

Mara, Iella, and Skynxnex were continuing their verbal spar. Iella offered possible concessions, while Mara put in an occasional pointed threat (often echoed by a confident Wookiee growl). None of them were looking at Kyp, whose rifle was slowly starting to lift up towards Skynxnex. Han glanced between them, wondering if he could stop Kyp—

Three things happened all at once. Mara’s head snapped around, turning towards Kyp with a surprised expression, her green eyes sharp with sudden concern. Skynxnex saw her motion, saw Kyp at the rear of the group, and his double-barreled blaster started to come up. And Kyp, armed with Mara’s blaster rifle, lifted the rifle up to point it at Skynxnex.

The scarecrow realized abruptly that he had miscalculated, that he should never have stepped out into the open no matter how confident he was of his superior military situation. He started to move to take himself out of the line of sight, his blaster firing, the twinned barrels fusing dual blaster bolts into a single overcharged blast that erupted from his weapon. Mara twisted back, bringing her lightsaber up instinctively and deflecting the bolt up into the ceiling, sending fragments of permacrete showering in every direction. As she did, Kyp—his expression wrenched with pain and outrage and fear—fired his blaster for the first time.

It was a good shot and caught Skynxnex just below his solar plexus. The man’s surprised expression was almost comical, as if he couldn’t believe what had just happened, and Kyp fired again. The second shot caught him in the stomach and with a gasp and gurgle he fell onto his back, his blaster clattering to the floor, a second fused blaster bolt firing wildly into the wall.

Everything went mad. Blaster bolts ripped in either direction; one of Chewie’s large bowcaster bolts took the guard closest to Skynxnex in the chest, blowing him off his feet. Mara jumped back as still more fire poured into the narrow corridor at sharp angles, deflecting a pair of bolts away and sending one of them into the chest of Skynxnex’s second guard. Iella shot the third twice; his return blaster fire grazed her arm, but she held up a hand to let them know she was fine. The remaining guard scrambled out of the way, throwing himself down and out of sight; Mara and Han gathered against the wall. Next to them the blaster rifle slipped from Kyp’s suddenly nerveless fingers and fell to the ground. Mara scooped it up and slung it over her back with a scowl.

They found themselves clustered in the middle of a narrow hallway. Back the way they’d come there would surely be more guards at any time, though they hadn’t arrived yet, and in front of them were what sounded like at least a dozen blaster-armed men, occasionally firing into the hallway.

“Great,” growled Han over the sound of blaster fire. “Just great. Now we’re pinned down and have nowhere to go.” He didn’t look at Kyp, regretting the words even before he’d finished uttering them.

Chewbacca rumbled confidently.

“You’ll handle it?” Han stared at him. “How are you planning to do that? In case you haven’t noticed there are a _lot_ of them and we’re caught like vrelt in a particularly nasty trap!”

Chewbacca rumbled again, rummaging through Iella’s pack. He pulled out a device that Han hadn’t seen before, started to activate it...

“How is _that_ going to help us?” Han asked with a scowl.

The Wookiee’s growl was punctured by the sudden mechanical sound of the _Millennium Falcon’s_ swivel blaster descending from its concealed location in the freighter’s hull and opening fire. The anti-personnel weapon rotated, blasting a furious hurricane of energy. Inside the hangar there was the sound of surprise and consternation—and the sounds of pain and bodies falling still. Chewbacca manipulated the remote, taking full advantage of the swivel blaster’s field of fire to clear their foes from at least one side of the room within; some blaster fire was now directed uselessly at the _Falcon._

“We can use the swivel blaster remotely? Since when can we use the swivel blaster remotely?” Han asked, astonished. He turned to stare at Chewie at the Wookiee’s short answer. “Last week?” Han blinked a few times. “I thought you said those modifications were vital just so you could get out of watching Jacen and Jaina while I made dinner.”

Chewbacca growled and rolled his eyes.

“I do _not_ take you for granted! Leia’d kill me. Luke’d kill me. _I’d_ kill me!”

“Come on,” Mara said with an annoyed scowl. She stepped into the open space as the blaster fire towards them reduced, batting the blaster fire that did come at them back. Iella ran out next, darting onto the _Falcon’s_ landing ramp and firing at the people shooting at Mara.

“Our turn, kid,” Han said, gripping Kyp’s collar and running with him and Chewbacca after her. They dodged at least one blaster bolt which came alarmingly close, then their feet thudded up the ship’s ramp and they were safe inside. He pointed at Kyp. “You find a seat and stay out of the way. Chewie, let’s figure out what these vrelt-for-brains did to our ship and get out of here!” 


	27. Chapter Twenty-Six

“—and what was your mission?”

“Tabanne, Atril. New Republic Armed Forces. Captain—”

“Yes, I know.” The Imperial Intelligence operative wore a Lieutenant’s uniform, but no awards or other potentially identifying items. He leaned back in the chair, his expression carefully blank.

Atril was _tired_. Since _Ession Strike_ had been captured she’d been separated from the rest of her crew. The fact that so many of them were non-human put a deep, gnawing terror in her gut that she couldn’t force down, even as hungry and exhausted as she now was. The Empire’s opinion of non-humans was well known.

She’d been lucky so far; the Empire was still softening her up and hadn’t yet turned to anything as crude as an interrogation droid.

That would be tomorrow, maybe.

“I don’t suppose you’ll be more forthcoming? If you hadn’t destroyed _Ession Strike’s_ main computer we wouldn’t have to be so forceful, but you really left us nothing to go on.”

“Tabanne, Atril. New Republic Armed Forces. Captain—”

“You realize we have your officers in interrogation. The Bothan—Hiacun Kre’fey, New Republic Armed Forces, Lieutenant, _Ession Strike_ —became quite chatty once subjected to interrogation. I understand the Togorian will be next.”

His voice was conversational, but Atril could hear the underlying steel. She could also feel her blood go colder than ice, but there was nothing else to do.

“Tabanne, Atril. New Republic Armed Forces. Captain, _Ession Strike_.”

The Imperial sighed. “As you wish, Captain Tabanne. But you should remember—unlike the rest of your crew, _you’re_ officially considered a defector.” His eyes hardened, his voice a chill warning. “There are certain obligations that the Empire accepts, even when it comes to _aliens_ , that do not extend to defectors.”

“Tabanne, Atril. New Republic Armed Forces. Captain—”

* * *

“She’s stubborn,” Lieutenant Dreyf informed Captain Pellaeon and Admiral Rogriss, watching the recording of the interrogation from earlier that day. _Chimaera_ had returned to Ukio and resumed its position as the garrison flagship, and everyone in the Imperial force knew that it was only a matter of time before the Republic assault began.

Bel Iblis would have something up his sleeve, Rogriss was sure. If the wily old Corellian were going to just batter his way in he would’ve done it already. No, Bel Iblis would surely have some trick, or ploy, or clever stratagem. The only question was what that would be.

“She’s pretty junior,” Pellaeon said skeptically. “And from the results of their interrogations, her officers don’t know anything about Bel Iblis’ intentions. She may not either.”

“I don’t think so, sir,” Dreyf said respectfully. “Rebel command is less formal and more encouraging of individual initiative. Her officers may yet know something, if I’d be permitted to intensify their interrogation.” His eyes flicked momentarily to Rogriss, then back to Pellaeon. “Captain Tabanne and _Ession Strike_ served as host for General Bel Iblis’ senior subordinate, General Antilles, and all our intelligence suggests that General Antilles and Rogue Squadron would be intimately involved in the planning of their Ukio invasion. Therefore I believe there is a good chance she _does_ know something, and—if I may speak freely?”

Pellaeon nodded. “Go ahead.”

“Sirs, there is a good chance the Rebels are already in the final stages of their invasion plan. It’s clear from the intelligence Moff Disra sent us that they outnumber and outgun our forces. We don’t have time to coddle—”

“We won’t risk the lives of our prisoners for the sake of intelligence they likely do not have,” Rogriss interrupted firmly. “If we had captured Captain Irraerl, or General Antilles, or Sena Midanyl it might be worth the dangers. But we captured the captain and crew of a single Corellian corvette.”

“With all due respect, our intelligence suggests that Captain Tabanne and General Antilles are good friends. There’s even speculation that she and General Antilles were lovers briefly—”

“There is _always_ speculation about relationships between female officers and their male superiors,” replied Rogriss, his tone growing frosty as he thought of all the speculation that Asori had suffered during her time at the fleet academy on Anaxes. “That does not make the speculation true.”

“Yes, sir,” Dreyf said, sounding appropriately chastised. Rogriss suspected he still disagreed, but that was alright. Dreyf was a loyal officer, and one of the smarter men left in the Empire if his meteoric career trajectory was anything to go by—and more importantly, he was content to work quietly in intelligence, rather than push himself into more visible positions of authority. A little over-exuberant, but that was characteristic of many young Imperial officers. The ones who had stayed, at least.

“I will speak with her,” Rogriss decided. “Let her get some sleep and give her something to eat, then send her up to my quarters. Perhaps a different approach may yield more.”

Pellaeon and Dreyf shared an uncertain glance, but neither objected. “As you wish, Admiral,” Pellaeon agreed.

* * *

Dreyf followed Pellaeon into the lift. The Captain could feel the Lieutenant fighting back the urge to speak; he had a slight twitch that was a sure giveaway of the impulse. “What is it, Lieutenant?”

Dreyf flinched. “It’s nothing, sir.”

“I can assure you, Lieutenant, so long as whatever it is you have to say isn’t treasonous, I won’t hold it against you.”

The Lieutenant went through an obvious mental debate as the lift progressed towards the bridge. Finally, the young man sighed. “I don’t understand Admiral Rogriss’ decision, sir. If there’s even a chance Captain Tabanne or her officers have information we might use to protect Ukio, it seems that we’re obliged to try to acquire it.”

“Tell me, Lieutenant,” Pellaeon asked, folding his arms behind his back. “What would you say our chances of successfully holding Ukio are, even if you were to elicit additional information from our prisoners?”

Dreyf’s flinch this time was significantly more pronounced. “Not good, sir.”

“I would agree with that assessment,” Pellaeon said with a nod. “We’re outnumbered and outgunned, and most importantly we’re unlikely to receive further support from the Empire, while the Rebellion has a large pool of resources Bel Iblis may yet draw upon.” He glanced sideways at Dreyf. “Why is that?”

“Sir, it’s not my place to speculate about the decision-making of the Council of Moffs—”

“This is off the record, Lieutenant, and you would not be a very good Intelligence officer, and an even worse Imperial commander, if you did not examine the decisions of your superiors. What they decide restricts what you may do, so it behooves that you understand them as best you can.” He waved his hand. “So, go ahead and speculate.”

“Sir.” Dreyf was quiet for a moment. “Sir, Ukio was only valuable to the Empire while our cloning facility on Wayland was in operation. With the loss of that facility, we’re no longer producing enough clones to need Ukio’s agricultural production. It would seem to me that the Moffs share this assessment and that our operation here is a delaying tactic. We’re keeping the Rebellion and General Bel Iblis distracted from attacking our more vital sectors.”

“Hmmm,” Pellaeon hummed agreeably. “You’re missing one other vital factor.” Pellaeon stood up a bit straighter, keeping his eyes on the lift doors as it continued to hum. “If that is their reasoning, why send _Chimaera_ here?”

Dreyf’s eyes widened. “Sir, I don’t believe it’s my place to speculate on that—”

Pellaeon laughed soberly. “We’ve already had that discussion, Lieutenant,” he pointed out. “But your unwillingness to answer is not surprising.” He allowed himself to sigh. “The answer, of course, is that I am expendable. Perhaps even dangerous.” His lips firmed. “I lost Bilbringi and Thrawn. The latter would not be such a mark against me with the Moffs, who always hated the Grand Admiral and were no doubt relieved when he died, if it did not come with the former. And this squadron was handpicked by Thrawn, was loyal to _him_ —not to the Moffs.” He didn’t smile. “We are considered unreliable.”

He didn’t add that Rogriss had been assigned to command them because he had also earned the enmity of the Moffs. Dreyf no doubt knew that, but even in an off-the-record conversation it was not Pellaeon’s place to discuss the Admiral’s black marks with a subordinate.

“I’m sure they don’t blame you for—” Pellaeon laughed, and Dreyf’s voice faded away. He was quiet for a moment as the lift continued to hum. “What does this have to do with his reluctance to allow a more intense interrogation?”

“We are likely to be on the losing side of this engagement, Lieutenant. A victory for the Empire at Ukio is to make our eventual defeat as slow and painful as possible for the enemy.” He waited a moment for that to sink in. “With that in mind, there is a good chance some of us, perhaps even all of us, end up in the Rebellion’s custody before the engagement is through. It is the Admiral’s responsibility to look after all the men under his command.”

He saw Dreyf putting the pieces together. “I understand, sir.”

“Good.” The hum of the lift quieted and then stopped as the doors whished open, revealing the long walk of the _Chimaera’s_ bridge. “Dismissed, Lieutenant.”

“Sir.”

* * *

The stewards hadn’t been quite sure what to make of his request. Preparing supper was regular enough; Rogriss dined every night and often had some of his subordinates join him. In the past, he’d dined with planetary dignitaries, or visiting brother officers, and even on one very unusual occasion a New Republic pilot, although the pilot in question hadn’t eaten very much of the food provided. But preparing a dinner for Rogriss and one of their _prisoners?_ Did they serve prison food?

They hadn’t known, and they hadn’t been willing to ask. Rogriss hadn’t been interested in solving their dilemma, either; he’d found their obvious consternation a brief, blackly amusing distraction from a dismal campaign. He reviewed the comestibles in front of him with satisfaction that they had opted for a light working dinner with an indifferent wine instead of a stacked array of ration bars or nutrigruel.

From the carefully blank expression on Atril Tabanne’s face, and the way she insisted on looking past him rather than at him, she might have preferred the connotation of the prison food.

He sighed. “Sit down, Captain Tabanne.”

Her gaze flickered with uncertainty. Clearly, she believed that this was a part of the interrogation—which it was, in its own way—and was searching for ulterior motives. Just as clearly, she was hungry and the smell of rich, boiled marlello eggs was enticing. But that small enticement was not enough to break her resolve, and he had not expected it would.

He slid a datapad across the table to her. She stopped it, looking down instinctively.

“You’ll find there a complete medical report on the current status of your crew as of five minutes ago,” Rogriss said calmly.

Tabanne’s grey eyes scanned the document quickly, then she looked up at Rogriss. “I have no reason to believe this information is true. Will you permit me to see my officers?”

“You know I can’t. Imperial regulations are clear, and I won’t breach them to satisfy your concerns.” She scowled and her expression started to revert to the carefully blank mask she’d been wearing, but he continued before she could fully don it. “You have my word, as an officer of the Imperial Starfleet, that the information provided there is accurate. They have been fed and watered, and now, in good conscience, so can you.”

She paused, and reviewed the document more clearly. Her expression darkened as she did. “My non-human officers have undergone interrogation, including psychotropic,” she growled angrily.

“Yes,” he agreed calmly. “But as you can see, they have suffered no permanent damage. They will require some time for recovery. Unfortunately, my medical staff is not skilled in the care of non-humans, but they can facilitate a gradual recovery, either here or at the prison facility you and your crew will ultimately be sent to.”

He could see Tabanne’s jaw tense slightly at his words, but the former Imperial gave little else away. “If you’re expecting me to be grateful, don’t,” she grated, her voice harsh with fatigue and recent deprivation. “If you were going to torture anyone for information, it should have been me. But the Empire always has to start with the non-humans.”

Rogriss gestured at the table. “Sit, Captain. I know you haven’t had a good meal in some time and you must be starving. If you are to be next for interrogation, it’s best to keep your strength up.”

“I don’t know anything that could help you,” she replied after a long moment. Glancing down at the meal, she chose to stay standing. “I was not privy to General Bel Iblis’ strategic or tactical planning.”

Rogriss chuckled. “Very well. I can see direct interrogation is a waste of time. Perhaps you can join me for a convivial meal, and satisfy my personal curiosity.” He took a bite of his own meal; the eggs were filled with diced Corellian sausage and doused in a tart, thick syrup, prepared in the aristocratic style preferred on Anaxes, and gestured expansively at her place setting with a fork. “I’ve always kept a talented kitchen staff on retainer as soon as I could afford to. I assure you, it really is quite good.”

She stayed standing.

He offered a small, amused smile. “Oh, very well,” he said, accepting.

“Why am I still here?” she asked, her voice not quite as harsh. He heard a hint of confusion in it that seemed genuine.

“I reviewed your service record,” Rogriss said. “Graduated with honors, though not the _very_ top of your class, at Carida. An impressive accomplishment for a woman at any of our academies, sadly.”

Her expression tightened, but she didn’t respond.

“It must have been tough for you at Carida.” His voice darkened, not so much in sympathy for Tabanne but from his long-standing anger at the state of the academies in this regard. Women were present at the academies, but always in small numbers as a percentage of the overall cadet body, given the pressures and culture involved. “I understand that there are certain… expectations.”

He silently cursed Grand Moff Tarkin, who had famously carried on an affair with a Caridan cadet and then rewarded her with rapid promotion after graduation, for normalizing the practice.

Like any good Caridan graduate, Tabanne lined up her shot and took it. “For an older family man who completed his training under the old Republic, you know a surprising amount about what it is like for a young woman who just wants to serve. But I’d guess your daughter had more protection than I did. For her sake, I hope Asori is well.”

Rogriss carefully controlled a spike of anger and mastered himself. “And here I was, Captain, under the assumption that you didn’t attend Bel Iblis’ briefings.”

Tabanne gave a smile, full of teeth. “While I don’t have a direct line to the General’s inner thoughts, Imperial counterintelligence isn’t what it used to be, and any information on your command was shared freely to provide tactical insight. Also, we had a mutual acquaintance. Before he perished in action, Lieutenant Loran told me to give you his warmest regards.”

Rogriss shook his head. “I hadn’t heard that he’d been lost. Shame about Loran. He was quite the talent; I can only surmise his ambitions exceeded that talent. Since you’ve asked, my daughter is well, and presently removed from combat. But we’re not here to talk about her. I brought you here to talk about you. And why you left.”

He dipped his head over from the meal over to the datapad beside him. “You served as a TIE pilot, though saw no combat against the Rebellion. After graduation you were assigned to the Muunilist garrison, spent eight months there. Then—” he looked up from the datapad, found her watching him expressionless calm “—you took leave and never came back.” He put down the datapad. “Your desertion was very well planned, as expected of an officer of your quality.”

She didn’t react, but she accepted and held his gaze. There was no challenge in those eyes, exactly. But there was no surrender in them, either.

“Why did you choose to defect?” he asked.

Tabanne’s expression twisted into a scowl. “I haven’t been allowed to see my crew, some of whom have already undergone interrogation. I don’t know their condition, or what your intentions are for them, or for myself once you’re satisfied we have no more information to surrender to your interrogation droids. I’m not _interested_ in having a polite conversation where I dust off old etiquette training and pretend we’re _brother_ _officers_.”

Rogriss leaned back in his chair. He couldn’t really blame her for being intransigent, under the circumstances. But he could at least make a small promise, from one honorable officer to another. “Your crew will be interrogated,” he agreed without remorse. “But I can assure you, that the interrogators have been giving strict instructions that no permanent harm is to be done to any of you, human or non-human. Once we’re satisfied with what we’ve learned, we’ll send you on to an internment camp. Prisoner exchanges are more common now than they were in the past, and I can assure you that the Empire does not throw away valuable resources in spates of vindictiveness.” _That is a luxury it can no longer afford._

Tabanne’s expression slackened, but only briefly. “Well,” she said archly, “That’s a change.”

“You have my word, as an Admiral of the Imperial Fleet,” Rogriss committed calmly.

Tabanne watched him, her expression studious. “ _That’s_ not worth a bucket of warm bantha spit from an average ‘Fleeter, but you’re far from average. You have a reputation in the Fleet,” she said finally. “As a wily old so-and-so, but a man who keeps his word.”

It was Rogriss’ turn to hide a grimace. Yes, perhaps he did. But that reputation had come at a high cost, and his prior willingness to bargain with agents of the Republic had fatally undermined his standing within the Imperial hierarchy. Only Thrawn’s intervention on his behalf had saved him—something that had further undermined confidence in him after Thrawn had died. “Such appreciation from enemies of your caliber—I’m gratified to hear it,” he said without a hint of inner turmoil in his voice.

She sighed and finally sank into her seat. Exhaustion and hunger she’d been repressing with sheer determination were plain in her countenance, and as she stared at her plate, in that moment he didn’t see a defiant Rebel, but a terrified young woman with responsibilities to her crew that she could no longer discharge, and no way to defend either them or herself. “What do you want to know?” she asked dully.

“As I said, I’m curious why you chose to defect,” he asked.

Tabanne looked away. “My time at the academy was unpleasant, to say the least,” she admitted. “But my time at Muunilist was worse.” Her voice faded away, and she shook her head. “Besides harassment from more senior officers, I found myself not sure what I was fighting for anymore. I joined the Starfleet for the same reasons that everyone does, out of service and patriotism and a desire to protect people. But I wasn’t doing any of that.” She looked away. “My squadron commander used us as his personal mercenary company, doing jobs for some of the local business consortiums. Piracy in all but name, covered with the legitimacy of the Imperial seal. I finally went above his head and reported him, and found that his actions were sanctioned all the way up to the sector Moff. The Obtrexta sector is just one giant criminal enterprise.”

Such things were not rare, Rogriss knew. Sector Moffs often would often ingratiate themselves with local criminal consortiums, becoming the heart of power both legal and illegal. Plenty of them idealized Moff Vorru and the Corellia Sector during his administration, but none had Vorru’s charismatic panache. He hadn’t known that about Obtrexta, but given the sheer amount of wealth that went in and out of Muunilist, it wasn’t surprising.

“But what really settled me,” she continued, “wasn’t the corruption. It was the hate. High Port is one of the most cosmopolitan places in the galaxy, as much as Coruscant even. I’m from Coruscant, and not from the wealthiest parts of the planet. I grew up with aliens—with non-humans. But the Imperial officers I served under saw all aliens as subhuman. Their lives had less value than their labor.” She shook her head, grimacing at some old memory. When she spoke again, she sounded exhausted. “So I decided to defect. It wasn’t that long after Endor, and defections had become much more common.”

“You knew the punishment for defection,” he said.

She looked up at him, defiance in her eyes. “Yes, of course I did. And I was terrified! Of course I was terrified. But I knew I was doing the right thing. Restoring _real_ order, bringing _real_ justice. And I never once looked back.” She scowled. “Not even now.” She lifted her chin up. “Are you planning on having me executed then?”

He blinked in surprise. “No, of course not. The Republic and the Empire may be at war, but that doesn’t mean we have to be uncivilized about it.” She didn’t look convinced, so he raised his hand. “On my honor, Captain Tabanne. You won’t be executed for desertion or defection.” He offered a small smile. “We may be enemies, and our political disputes may be beyond reconciliation, but an honorable soldier respects his—or her—honorable opponents.”

She glared at him, then sagged. “I suppose I have no choice but to trust you.”

He pointed at her untouched meal. “Eat, Captain. You must be hungry.”

She looked at the food, then at him, then back at the food. She shook her head. “I’ll eat what my crew does,” she said firmly. “I won’t accept special treatment just because I am _Ession Strike’s_ captain.”

He watched her for a long moment. Her hand trembled slightly, a sure sign of hunger. But clearly, her mind was made up, and he hoped that, had their circumstances been reversed, that he could have been so brave. _An honorable opponent_ , Rogriss thought sadly. It was a shame they had to be enemies.

So Rogriss summoned the steward for ration bars and nutrigruel, and enjoyed his eggs.

* * *

Captain Pellaeon read the report from Linuri with the relief of an impatient man finally in possession of a long-awaited gift. He read the note a second time, making sure that he had not misunderstood, and then handed the datapad back to Lieutenant Tschel. “Thank you, Lieutenant. You may resume your normal duties.”

“Sir,” Tschel agreed, spinning on his boots in a reasonable imitation of a parade ground turn. It wasn’t academy quality, but that was hardly Tschel’s fault. Like so many of the Imperial officers his age, he’d been impressed into the service and his training had been curtailed. Still, he was learning, and at the rate he was learning in a year or two he’d be worthy of promotion to a higher post.

He glanced at his watch. Admiral Rogriss would just be finishing his evening meal. He quickly reviewed the system display, making sure to note each of the ships of the Imperial formation. One of those ships—the captured corvette _Ession Strike_ —was being moved down to Ukio’s surface by a skeleton crew, where its new Imperial crew would begin training. Pellaeon hoped that the ship would be prepared for service in a few days, though that would depend on how long the replacement of its main computer took. Otherwise, the Ukio system appeared to be in its normal, well-defended state, although the persistent red that hovered around the icon representing _Agonizer_ was an irritant that prevented comfort. Luckily, it was an irritant with a solution.

“I will be conferring with the Admiral,” he announced. “Continue your duties, I’ll return shortly.”

Rogriss did not use Thrawn’s personal command room. It had been left, largely untouched, since the Grand Admiral’s death. Instead, he used the more traditional admiral’s command suite, which was far smaller and more conventional. Pellaeon stepped to the door and straightened his tunic. “Captain Pellaeon to see Admiral Rogriss,” he announced.

The door slid open and he stepped inside. The light was kept relatively dim, and Rogriss was sitting behind his desk, a small light shining down onto a book that he had open. The Admiral waved Pellaeon closer. “Come in, Captain.”

Pellaeon approached, stopping in front of the desk and folding his hands behind his back. Rogriss closed his book, after placing a mark into the appropriate page, then settled it onto a shelf behind his desk.

The office was not atypical. A smattering of personal items decorated shelves on either side, which Rogriss had moved to _Chimaera_ when he had taken command of the squadron. Most of the books had been accumulated while Rogriss was in command; the Admiral was a voracious reader and rarely left the ship without returning with one or two volumes in hand. There were also pictures arrayed across the wall behind him. A woman, grey-haired and regal, stared at Pellaeon with dark brown eyes from one of them. She wore elegant couture, but a simpler ring, one that might have been purchased by a young officer on leave. Next to her was a painting of two young adults, Rogriss’ two children, both in Imperial uniforms. One wore the bars of a Lieutenant Commander, the other of a full Commander. The third painting was of _Agonizer,_ Rogriss’ command of long-standing.

Rogriss looked tired. The stress of the command was wearing on him most, more than it was on Pellaeon. Pellaeon had his ship and crew, constant combat drills and training exercises to keep his mind off the dire strategic situation most days. Rogriss, whose job it was to find a way to win despite that dire strategic situation, had no equivalent distraction. Even the book he had just placed aside, Pellaeon saw, was a collection of memoirs from Republic commanders who had lost battles during the Clone Wars.

“Yes, Captain?” A small glass was filled with a dark liquid, and Rogriss’ thumb rested comfortably against the glass.

“Moff Disra sends word, sir,” Pellaeon said, his tone formal. “ _Invidious_ ’ repairs are complete and the Star Destroyer has been released from the Linuri fleet yards. He reports that the preparations are underway to see to _Agonizer’s_ needs, and that the yard estimates the entire repair cycle will take under a week after their arrival.”

“That’s good to hear,” Rogriss replied. He turned slightly in his chair to glance up at the painting of _Agonizer_ that hung behind him. “Agonizer has been my command since we left Kuat together,” he said regretfully. “This will be the first time she’s been in for repairs I won’t be aboard to oversee them. But Captain Tigan is more than capable.” He turned back to Pellaeon. “Order _Agonizer_ to depart for Linuri at once, and task two of our remaining _Katana_ Dreadnaughts to the ship as escort and tow as necessary. Their absence won’t harm our defenses overmuch given _Agonizer’s_ already damaged state.” He folded his arms across his chest. “Inform the dreadnaught captains that they are under Captain Tigan’s command, _not_ Moff Disra’s. Their responsibility is to protect _Agonizer_ and ensure it reaches Linuri intact and then provide escort for its return to the fleet. Also, I want as many TIE fighters and pilots as Linuri has available loaded onto _Agonizer_ for its return, we’re in dire need of reinforcements after our recent engagements.”

That was an understatement, Pellaeon knew. Seven Star Destroyers should, ideally, carry more than five hundred TIEs of all varieties. They didn’t have a quarter of that total, even accounting for the squadrons that were assigned to the Ukio planetary garrison.

“Yes, sir,” Pellaeon agreed. “If I may, Admiral?”

“Go ahead.”

“I was wondering if you or Lieutenant Dreyf had managed to get anything more out of the prisoners from _Ession Strike_ during the last round of interrogations.”

Rogriss’ expression darkened. “Not very much. The only thing we’ve learned that wasn’t in your pre-existing report is that Luke Skywalker has apparently joined Rogue Squadron as a temporary pilot. The Rogues have been understrength for some time, and General Antilles requisitioned his services.” He offered Pellaeon a small smile. “Given _Chimaera’s_ history of tracking and attempting to capture him, I wasn’t sure if I should tell you that he was one of the pilots that escaped our ambush.”

Pellaeon scowled. “Skywalker. Perhaps that accounts for how they were able to escape.”

“Perhaps,” Rogriss agreed. “It is worth noting that his abilities are at Bel Iblis’ disposal. It’s best not to underestimate a Jedi; they have a particular knack for turning up in the wrong place at precisely the wrong time.”

“I’ll schedule another drill, sir,” Pellaeon grated. “We’ll be ready.”

Rogriss laughed. “You’ve had drills scheduled every day this week. You don’t have time for another given your existing schedule. Best to give your crew at least some rest.” His expression darkened. “I suspect, Captain, that it will pay dividends in the days to come. Bel Iblis won’t wait much longer. The moment he sees an opening he will pounce, and we’re now reduced in strength with _Agonizer_ gone.” Rogriss sipped his liquor. “Expect him, Captain. He will be here soon.”

* * *

“Have you seen anything interesting yet, Whistler?” Corran asked, peering at his HUD. The fighter he flew wasn’t his—painted in the New Republic’s red and white, instead of his own fighter’s CorSec green-on-black—but the T-65BR had sensors that a normal X-wing didn’t possess. It sacrificed the X-wing’s proton torpedo launchers, some shield strength, and a lot of maneuverability for a long-range reconnaissance suite that let him spy from a distance on the fleet garrisoning Ukio.

Whistler beeped, and his HUD shifted as the droid started to sort through all the information. Corran had come out of hyperspace pretty far out and coasted into the system on momentum; Luke had shown him how to properly enter a hibernation trance and Whistler had brought him out of it once they were close enough to get a good look.

This was, he knew, an incredibly risky thing to do, especially alone. A single Recon-X would be hard pressed to defend itself against TIEs, but it also had the chance to get in and out unnoticed, and the Rogues had been adamant that they had to do _something_. They’d lost _Ession Strike._ They’d lost Captain Tabanne. They’d even lost their maintenance crew, with Zraii and other techs who had been with the Rogues for years now in the hands of the Empire. Everyone knew not to expect the Empire to treat their non-human techs kindly.

And it wasn’t like this risk was excessive. Wedge and Tycho had both wanted to take the recon flight themselves, but Corran had patiently pointed out that he possessed two things they did not: The Force, and Whistler. And his CorSec constructed astromech had data analysis abilities that no other astromech in the fleet could match.

Whistler let out a whoop, and Corran’s HUD switched from the planet to a Star Destroyer. The IFF updated, letting Corran know that the Star Destroyer was _Agonizer._ “That’s strange,” Corran commented, noting that Agonizer was on a loping trajectory towards Ukio’s hyper limit. “I wonder where it’s going.”

Whistler beeped, the sound impatient. Corran sighed and started going through the data again as words scrolled across his screen. “Not so fast, Whistler, I’m not a cyborg, you can’t just download the data into my brain.” Agonizer wasn’t in good shape; it bore all the signs of pretty serious battle damage, and Corran grinned. _We definitely kicked that ship around. Too bad we didn’t finish it off when we had the chance._

Agonizer was flanked by two dreadnaughts, and then Corran blinked in surprise as all three ships abruptly vanished. He frowned. “Did they go to hyperspace?” he asked. Whistler hooted at him, and text scrolled across his HUD.

A TRAJECTORY EXTRAPOLATION INDICATES THAT THE IMPERIAL SHIPS ARE HEADED TO DOLDUR SECTOR VIA THE ANDO HYPERSPACE BYPASS, EVADING THE BLOCKADE AT HISHYIM. CONCLUSION: THEY ARE TRAVELING TO THE IMPERIAL REPAIR YARDS AT LINURI TO HAVE THEIR INTERNAL AND EXTERNAL DAMAGE REPAIRED.

“They left?” Corran asked. Whistler made sense, but—

He toggled through all the other ships in the system, letting Whistler get as much information on each of them as he could. “They’re down to six Star Destroyers, _Stellar Web,_ only two dreadnaughts, an escort frigate and two _Carrack_ -class light cruisers.” His heart fell as the board updated. “And one modified Corellian corvette,” he added somberly.

Whistler announced his own unhappy agreement.

Corran evaluated the data, and made his decision. “All right. We’re going to do one more sweep, Whistler, then we’re going back to the fleet,” Corran said. “If I’m right, I think we have a window to hit Ukio before _Agonizer_ gets back, and I for one want to take it.”


	28. Chapter Twenty-Seven

The _Last Resort,_ masquerading as the Imperial-aligned Star Galleon _Rapiqum,_ came out of hyperspace well inside of the Imperial picket. Standing to the side, close but not too close to Aves, Luke Skywalker examined the plot. Most of the Imperial formation was clustered around Ukio in a classic multi-dimensional defense posture, capable of converging at any point on short notice, well inside of the planet’s gravity well to ensure that there would be time to respond to any potential assault.

General Cracken’s intelligence, obtained thanks to Iella Wessiri’s operations on the planet some months prior, had yielded a wealth of information. Incoming freighters to Ukio were required to enter the system on a specific trajectory, which would be a first-round screen against Republican infiltration. Then they would be bracketed by Imperial fighters, scanned, and finally escorted in to land on the planet, load up on agricultural exports, and depart again along a different, constantly-changing trajectory.

It wasn’t a particularly complicated defensive scheme, Luke thought, but it was an effective one. Or it would be, but _Last Resort_ had one particular modification that should make the scheme unsuccessful. He was just there as backup, in case they needed a desperate mind-trick to slip past (something he had warned Wedge he was pretty sure wouldn’t work, but that was what last resorts were for).

He hoped they wouldn’t need it. The mind trick wasn’t something he liked using very much, especially after dealing with C’baoth, who had so effortlessly and egregiously abused it. But in this case, Luke knew, he would if he needed to. The lives of the Rogues and Page’s commandos, not to mention Aves and the _Last Resort’s_ crew, were all at stake, as well as the prosperity and livelihoods of all the Ukian farmers currently living under effective Imperial conscription.

Aves tugged his neatly-fit but clearly uncomfortable Imperial uniform into place, looking down at it, then over at Luke. “I hate having my hair cut for a part,” he muttered.

“I’m sure it will be worth it. It’s not like your hair was cut all that long before,” Luke pointed out. He was dressed in his Jedi blacks; his New Republic flightsuit had been left behind aboard _Ession Strike._

“True,” Aves agreed, “but the Imperials all have this rigid hairstyle.” The smuggler gestured at his head of blonde hair. “When you’ve got hair like mine, confining it to stormtrooper neat is like muting a songbird. Sure, you _can,_ but—” he flicked his now quite short hair theatrically— “why _would_ you?”

Luke laughed, appreciating the lightening of the mood. Clearly, the rest of Aves’ bridge crew did likewise, and Luke could feel a general relaxation flow through the sapients that manned the stations surrounding them. Luke didn’t know Aves all that well—he knew more about him from Lando and Wedge’s brief stories of working with him—but he could understand quickly why Mara both found Aves aggravating and begrudgingly considered him a friend. “Are you sure you weren’t an X-wing pilot in a previous life?”

“Coming from the co-founder of Rogue Squadron, I’ll take that as a compliment,” Aves replied. He sat up, straightening his uniform as the ship’s comm system started beeping with the alert of an incoming transmission. “Time for all of us to play our roles.” He nodded at his comms officer. “Put me on.”

There was a brief fuzz of static as the comm channel with the distant Ukian orbital platforms was established. On the monitor, Luke watched as a flight of TIE fighters screamed towards them, casual but alert, their scanners already examining the galleon.

Luke forced himself to relax. The cloak would do its job, he reassured himself, recalling how at Sluis Van, the Imperials had used a cloaking device for the same purpose—to sneak an invasion force past scanners with the illusion of an empty cargo hold. It worked then, and unless the Imperials already knew they were attempting this ploy—and so far, at least, his danger sense wasn’t kicking in—it would work again, but this time for the other side.

There was a certain satisfaction in taking Thrawn’s genius and turning it around to work for them instead of against them.

“Imperial traffic control,” Aves adopted a casual, slightly precise, very annoyed tone, “This is Captain Quiller of the _Rapiqum._ We’re here out of Sartinaynian to collect ag products. Please assign us a landing site as quickly as possible; we managed to slip past the Rebel blockade and would like to slip back out before they get more diligent about patrolling the Ando hyperspace bypass. Forwarding our clearance code now.” He nodded at his comms officer, who pressed a button.

Luke held his breath, hoping that the Imperials had not yet changed the code.

“ _Rapiqum,_ this is Ukio Control,” a clipped, precise voice with a Coruscanti accent said in response. “Maintain your current heading and speed until our escort arrives to bring you in. Do not deviate.”

Aves glanced at Luke, arching a questioning eyebrow. Luke, not feeling any additional danger, nodded slowly. Aves drew himself up. Up until this point they could make a quick escape back into hyperspace, but progressing further in-system would negate that option and quick. “Copy, Ukio Control,” Aves replied casually. “Awaiting further instructions.” He nodded at the Twi’lek woman who sat at the Galleon’s helm. Her expression, Luke noted, betrayed more than a little nervousness, but the hand at the helm was steady.

Through the bridge’s forward window the planet Ukio—its beautiful, luscious green continents mostly flat, spotted with rivers and lakes and flowing white clouds that shifted slowly—grew as they approached the perimeter. Above the planet, slowly circling it in low orbits, were the six Star Destroyers of Admiral Rogriss’ fleet and their escorts. Luke’s danger sense didn’t twinge as they approached, but he could feel it go taut as his own awareness and tension ramped up. There were any number of ways this mission could go wrong, and while Luke had been a General and was hardly unfamiliar with the nerves that came before battle, it had been years since the last time he’d _chosen_ one. This mission, this moment, was not one truly befitting a Jedi, he was sure. As righteous as the Republic’s cause was, he’d not even considered diplomacy.

“Are we clear?” Wedge’s voice was tinny over the _Last Resort’s_ internal comms, echoing out of a speaker above Aves’ command chair.

Luke could feel, rather than see or hear, as the tension in the room grew as the Imperial ships loomed larger. Two TIE fighters casually raced in, splitting along either side of the rotund Star Galleon and boxing the freighter in while they performed scans of the vessel. Aves and his pilot were both holding their breath, but Luke’s attention was drawn to the woman manning the ship’s tactical board. He stepped close and reached out, putting a hand on her shoulder, and her hand—which had begun to reach to the firing control for _Last Resort’s_ more than ample gunnery array—drew back.

“Relax,” Luke murmured. “We’re still fine.”

She nodded nervously. Luke made sure she was calm and collected, and then returned his attention to Aves.

The two TIEs lingered, then both kicked in their engines and roared off towards the nearest Star Destroyer, which was maintaining its distance.

“We’re being scanned by the Star Destroyer now,” the Twi’lek pilot said.

“Yeah,” Aves muttered. Then, more confidently: “Well, they won’t see a thing with the cloak in place.” He pressed the button for the ship’s comm. “We seem to be, Antilles. We’ll be reaching Ukio’s shield perimeter in another few minutes.”

“ _Rapiqum,_ this is Ukio Control,” the same voice from the planetary traffic control returned. “Your cargo hold is showing empty. We were really hoping you’d have some supplies for us.”

The entire bridge exhaled as one.

“Sorry to disappoint, Ukio Control,” Aves said apologetically. “We were one of three freighters dispatched from Sartinaynian last week. I think the other two were carrying military equipment, but we were just sent to help you do some exporting. We do have hard currency to pay for whatever we buy.” The smuggler managed—barely, Luke thought—to keep a triumphant grin off his face.

“The Rebels must’ve gotten the other two,” the voice said, sounding resigned and frustrated. “Damn them. And currency is good, but it’s hard to spend it blockaded like this. Still, I’m sure the Admiral will put it to good use. We’ve given you a landing berth.”

“Confirmed, Ukio Control,” Aves said. “Sorry to hear our fellows didn’t make it. We’re going to be in and out as quickly as possible; we don’t want to get caught ourselves on the way out.”

Luke was impressed. Aves’ casual, practiced Imperial officer impression was quite good. No doubt many smugglers had gotten good at it over the years. His danger sense continued to hum, the taut wire still waiting for a pluck. He patted the shoulder of _Last Resort’s_ tactical officer again and moved on, keeping carefully away from where Aves was still playing his role. 

On the monitor, the nearest Star Destroyer, the _Judicator_ , didn’t make any moves to come towards them. The _Last Resort_ continued towards Ukio, the planet now filling the window. Luke glanced towards the plot, and saw they were getting close to Ukio’s shield perimeter.

He held his breath as they continued their approach, each kilometer feeling like ten.

“Yeah, I’m sorry too, _Rapiqum._ You’re now under the Ukio shield perimeter. Feel free to make your landing approach. We’ll get you out of here as quick as we can, don’t want to lose any more good crews to the Rebels.”

There was a second ripple of relief that fluttered through the crew, this time tinged with a hint of jubilance. The hard part was over, and it hadn’t been all that hard at all. Karrde had been right, the cloak had done its part and concealed their attack force from the Imperial scanners.

Now it was their turn.

The communications link was cut off, and a ripple of relief and anticipation echoed around the bridge. The Twi’lek at the pilot’s station pumped her fist in victory, and Aves relaxed into his chair and pushed his hands through his hair, mussing it thoroughly. “We’re under the shield, Antilles,” Aves announced.

Luke could feel the Rogue’s relief—and hungry anticipation—from here. They’d lost Atril, they’d lost _Strike,_ and now it was time for payback.

Luke Skywalker, Jedi Knight, knew he shouldn’t approve. But Luke Skywalker, rebel X-wing pilot, survivor of Yavin and Hoth, co-founder of Rogue Squadron and prolific Rebellion ace couldn’t help but share Wedge’s anticipation.

“Good,” Wedge said darkly, the tinny-effect of the intercom not taking any of the lingering menace out of his voice. “Get down here Luke, your fighter is waiting for you.”

* * *

“Final report on the _Rapiqum,_ Captain.”

Pellaeon took the datapad and examined it. “No import items,” he sighed. “We’ll have to contact Linuri again and see if we can try again to sneak some freighters past the Rebel blockade.” Conditions on Ukio and among the fleet were not yet dire, but after the loss of Suwen Station the fleet had especially begun to run low on Tibanna gas. “Maybe we’ll have to send one of our freighters out to the garrison at Bespin,” he grunted.

“That would be one option, sir,” Lieutenant Dreyf agreed. “At this point, I would assume that we’ve gotten from Linuri all that we’re going to get. The most recent update from _Agonizer’s_ intelligence division is that the base is also running short of a number of items, including Star Destroyer spare parts and TIEs.” He grimaced. “They think _Invidious_ raided the existing stocks of both, but can’t get anyone to confirm that.”

Pellaeon grimaced. “Wonderful,” he growled. That meant even if they did get _Agonizer_ back quickly, there was a good chance the Star Destroyer wouldn’t be in prime condition, and wouldn’t be able to bring back large stocks of spare parts for taking care of the numerous and sundry aches and pains plaguing the rest of the squadron. _Amateurs study tactics, professionals study logistics,_ he reminded himself, hearing the words spoken in Thrawn’s meticulous voice. _If I ever needed a reminder of why that is true, this campaign would be it._

The men and women of the fleet had been tense ever since _Agonizer’s_ departure. Everyone knew Bel Iblis would strike Ukio sooner or later. Everyone knew that when he did, their forces would be outnumbered, potentially quite badly. Everyone knew that their singular strategic advantage was Ukio’s planetary shield, which could keep the planet from being captured, but would do little to protect the ships and their crews, which would not and could not hide under that shield.

Increasingly, everyone also knew that it was hopeless. No one said it aloud, certainly not to him, but Pellaeon could see the anxiety, the exhaustion, and the stress that came along with despair. They had faith in Rogriss and they had faith in Pellaeon. They would fight to the last; that was what Thrawn had given them: confidence in themselves, confidence in their leaders, confidence in each other. But, with each passing day without reinforcement, they were losing their faith in the Empire itself.

Pellaeon remembered the waning days of the Republic. The chaos and catastrophe, the infighting and fratricidal conflict. How with each passing year more and more people were convinced the Republic would fall; how with each passing month more and more people would voice their fears of the worst that could come. He remembered how Chancellor Palpatine had been salvation, his reorganization of the state and the surge in confidence, the feeling of safety and security restored. The Empire had hardly been perfect—no government was perfect—but hadn’t it been better than endless civil strife and bloodletting? Wasn’t gradually reforming an imperfect but _orderly_ and _stable_ government preferable to tearing it all down and restoring chaos?

Thrawn would have known what to do.

Thrawn was dead.

There had to be someone in the Empire who could anchor it. Most of the Moffs were hopelessly corrupt, that had always been true, but some of them were still widely admired. Grand Moff Kaine was the obvious choice, but Pellaeon still resented how reluctant Kaine had been to support Thrawn. Moff Ferrouz would be a better choice; he’d always had a sterling reputation and was well-liked by the Starfleet, which was a rarity among Moffs. Or perhaps another military officer; while no one could replace Thrawn there were some on Carida that virtually every member of the Imperial officer corps knew and respected—

“Status change!” 

Pellaeon was yanked rudely out of his musings and instantly alert. He took a few steps over to the status board, then reached for the ship’s com as battle klaxons started to sound. “Admiral Rogriss,” he said flatly, viewing the suddenly long list of enemy warships assembling and starting their slow, inexorable approach towards Ukio, “General Bel Iblis has arrived.”

* * *

_Orthavan_ snapped out of hyperspace, accompanied by the rest of Bel Iblis’ fleet. The ships fell into a line formation, with Sair Yonka’s ISD _Freedom_ cutting forward, leading the Star Cruisers and dreadnaughts in a thrust towards the planet. Just as planned.

In the middle of the formation, the Interdictor _Corusca Rainbow_ brought its gravity well projectors up to full strength, denying the Imperial fleet their most obvious avenue of retreat. Of course, Bel Iblis thought grimly, that assumed that Rogriss was interested in retreat. Given the Imperial Admiral’s likely orders, he almost certainly wasn’t.

Sena Midanyl stood at his shoulder, examining the combat plot with him. “Captain Horn’s report was accurate,” she commented. “ _Agonizer_ is gone, and two dreadnaughts with her. That makes our four Mon Calamari cruisers, _Freedom,_ and _Endurance_ versus their six Star Destroyers, and we have a very strong advantage in sub-capital craft.” Her voice was a familiar combination of tense and confident. Confident because their force advantage was indeed substantial; tense, because battle was unpredictable, and even a substantial force advantage would not prevent them from losing ships and personnel.

Bel Iblis grunted his acknowledgement. On the display the Imperial ships were responding to their arrival; the six Star Destroyers were grouping into a box formation designed to concentrate firepower on one ship at a time. He reminded himself grimly that many a battle had been won by the numerically weaker side because the stronger side had been overconfident. “Fleet, this is the General. Reduce speed by half and alter vector to port fifty degrees. Shift formation to allow the Mon Calamari cruisers to take the point position. Cruisers, shift power from weapons to shields to absorb the initial Imperial barrage.”

Captain Irraerl’s gravelly voice echoed his commands, and _Orthavan_ began to move.

He watched as the fleet formation adjusted, the heartier Mon Calamari Star Cruisers shifting to the point position and the entire fleet shifting to port. Star Destroyers were most dangerous along their forward firing axis, but Star Cruisers had a more even distribution of weapons and engaging with their side facing would allow them to roll and protect a damaged flank.

Just as importantly, the reduction in the fleet’s overall speed would give General Antilles a chance to play his part and hopefully disrupt the Empire’s overall battle plan before that battle had even been joined.

“Now we wait for the Rogues,” Sena murmured.

“Yes,” he muttered softly. “Now we wait for the Rogues.”

* * *

Rogriss and Pellaeon clustered around the combat display on the elevated command walk in the middle of _Chimaera’s_ bridge, as the normal, nervous chatter before battle echoed in the crew pits on either side. “He’s altered formation,” Pellaeon mused, examining the display. “He’s going to bring the Star Cruisers in first.”

“Star Cruisers are tougher than our Star Destroyers, with their multilayered shields and heavy armor,” Rogriss agreed. “Still, I wouldn’t want to take one into the forward guns of six Star Destroyers.” The admiral glanced at Pellaeon. “What do you think his strategy is?”

Pellaeon frowned, considering. Bel Iblis might just be counting on sheer toughness and numbers to let him drive his way through the Imperial formation like an Ylesian Bull Reek, but Pellaeon’s experience with Bel Iblis suggested that the weathered old Corellian was up to something much more clever. “His biggest advantage over us isn’t starships,” Pellaeon pointed out. “It’s starfighters. Our TIEs have dwindled, and their B-wings carry enough proton torpedoes to kill a Star Destroyer.”

“Hmmmm,” Rogriss mused softly, shifting the display, his eyes on the newest vessel in the Republican fleet. _Endurance_ wasn’t as large as a Star Destroyer, and from the latest intelligence estimates the vessel wasn’t as well-armed as one. But everyone agreed it was a carrier, which meant it posed quite a different kind of danger. And Bel Iblis had also added that _Quasar Fire-_ class cruiser-carrier. Between the two of them Bel Iblis could easily have a hundred starfighters, plus however many his other ships were carrying. “The Republic’s new doctrine _is_ starfighter heavy,” he said thoughtfully.

Footsteps thumped across the deck, and Rogriss and Pellaeon both turned to face Lieutenant Tschel. “Communication from Ukio, sir,” the Lieutenant said formally. “They’re scrambling their surface-based TIE fighter squadrons and will raise the planetary defense shield as soon as deployment is complete.”

“Good,” Rogriss replied, folding his hands behind his back. He looked to Pellaeon. “That ought to give us a little more protection against the Republic’s starfighters,” he said.

“Yes,” Pellaeon said slowly, watching the Republic maneuver with cautious eyes. Something still felt wrong. He and Thrawn had sparred with Bel Iblis many times, and while the General had more than enough guts for a straight-up brawl, he was also clever enough to have stymied Thrawn on more than one occasion. Bel Iblis still had to have at least one, perhaps more than one, trick coming—unless, as was possible, this attack had been launched quickly, without a great deal of planning, in response to _Agonizer’s_ departure. But Pellaeon didn’t think so. There wassomething he wasn’t seeing yet.

But what?

“Admiral?” a voice called from the scanning station in the starboard crew pit. “Admiral, we’re getting some confusing sensor readings from Ukio.”

Rogriss and Pellaeon both moved to the side of the long walk, peering down at the standing man. “Confusing?” Pellaeon demanded. “Confusing how?”

“Sir, I think _Rapiqum_ just suffered some kind of major hull breach,” the officer replied. “It looks like she lost a large chunk of hull plating, and… seems to be venting cargo into Ukio’s atmosphere?”

“Cargo?” Pellaeon exclaimed. “Our scans said _Rapiqum_ was empty!”

He stormed over to the console and brought up the sensor data in real time. _Rapiqum_ was listing badly, but under control; the ship seemed to have lost its main cargo bay door, and perhaps some of the hull besides. But as he watched, it didn’t seem like the freighter was out of control, and still more objects tumbled out of the hole in its hull. But their descents didn’t look like debris, no… it was more like a _controlled_ descent…

And then, like a thunderbolt, he understood.

From the sudden inhalation from Rogriss, and the man’s knuckles going white where he gripped the rail, he knew that the Admiral understood as well. Rogriss spun away. “Is _Rapiqum_ already under Ukio’s defense shield perimeter?” he barked.

“Umm, yes sir!” called an officer from the portside crew pit.

Rogriss spun back to Tschel. “Tell Ukio to expedite fighter deployment and prepare all surface defenses! Tell them _Rapiqum_ is hostile and to prepare for starfighter attack!”

But it was already too late, and Pellaeon knew it.

* * *

Wedge was the first pilot to drop out of _Last Resort’s_ makeshift hangar, his fighter in freefall down towards the surface before the engines kicked in. He shifted S-foils to attack mode, felt the X-wing eagerly shift into its more aggressive combat position. Star Galleons weren’t built to carry snubfighters, but they _were_ built to carry large amounts of cargo and load and unload it quickly. Repairing the damage they’d done to the ship depressurizing the cargo hold while in flight would take a while, and Aves hadn’t been thrilled about using his ship in such a ruthless manner, but the ample compensation Bel Iblis promised had made up for the smuggler’s qualms.

Atmosphere and friction screamed around him as his X-wing dipped towards the grassy surface and rolling fields of Ukio, Gate already humming as he identified the main Imperial ground garrison—and more importantly, identified the large, hastily-built permacrete structure that housed several squadrons of the Empire’s ground-based TIE fighters. From the intelligence Cracken had sent them, there were five squadrons of TIE fighters and interceptors stationed on the ground on Ukio. Even worse, those squadrons were largely flown by Thrawn’s clone pilots, who had proven time and again to be much more dangerous than the average Imperial novice. In space, those pilots could wreak havoc on the Republic’s snubfighters and turn what Wedge hoped would be a one-sided rout into a bloody fiasco.

But they weren’t in space yet. They weren’t even in the air yet. They were still on the ground.

Gate hummed a solid tone and Wedge’s HUD glowed with the red of a solid target lock. Wedge drew back on the stick, leveling his fighter out as he closed on the Imperial base, and then when he reached three klicks out he thumbed the weapon release. Two proton torpedoes lanced out from his fighter, joined seconds later by two more from Tycho, then two from Hobbie and finally, almost reluctantly, two from Luke.

He watched as the facility’s lasers belatedly started firing. The four X-wings split and went evasive, drawing the ground-based weapons to chase them. Avoiding the incoming fire was almost too easy and Wedge fought off the impulse to scoff at the poor gunnery. _They weren’t expecting us to be here and they’re panicking, but a panicked turbolaser still kills you just as dead._

Wedge’s X-wing was now close enough that his computer could identify the TIEs on the ground. Three dozen TIE interceptors, sheltered in their hangar in neat lines, pilots gathered around them preparing to launch.

His two torpedoes hit and the roof of the hangar imploded, permacrete and transparisteel transforming from foundation into fragmentation grenades as the explosive potential from the torpedoes converted into energy. The structure sagged, structural pillars shattering, and then the building collapsed under its own weight. With a sudden crash that Wedge could hear from the sky even over the roar of his fighter’s engines in atmosphere the interceptors and their pilots vanished under tons of collapsing, insufficiently reinforced permacrete.

Tycho’s torpedoes struck the already ruined building and explosions ricocheted to the neighboring structures. A tall, six-story building which was probably a troop and pilot dormitory fell as its primary supports vanished, toppling sideways and adding more ruin to what was left of the Imperial base. Proton torpedoes which would have been enough to eviscerate an unshielded Star Destroyer had just done much worse to an unshielded, unarmored base which had been thought well-enough protected by the planet’s shield generator alone.

Remarkably, one of the garrison’s TIEs had actually slipped out of the hangar before its collapse, skidding forward and avoiding falling debris. The fighter bounced on its repulsorlifts, then turned up towards the sky and started climbing against atmosphere and gravity, pitted and scoured by shrapnel. That was as far as it got; Wedge put a full quad burst into the stricken fighter, melting the vessel and sending its wreck crashing back down into the ruins of its hangar it had just escaped.

He’d just killed hundreds of men and women. On another day, he’d feel a degree of guilt for that. It wouldn’t keep him from doing it, they were the enemy and they’d kill him if he didn’t kill them first, but he’d regret the necessity of it.

Not today.

Hobbie and Luke scorched over the ground, their proton torpedoes leaving craters where laser turrets had been. The weapons fire from the ground stopped, leaving billowing smoke that pumped into the air, darkening the sky as more secondary explosions echoed across the ground.

“Target one eliminated,” Wedge reported bloodlessly over the squadron comm. “Two Flight, Three Flight report in.”

“Nine here,” Corran’s voice was calm and confident. “The tertiary fighter garrison has been destroyed. Clean sweep, the squadron here isn’t going to trouble us. We’re clearing out the surface defenses around the shield generator now so we can bring down _Last Resort_.”

“This is Five,” Janson’s voice was tense, and Wedge could hear in it the split focus of a conversation in the middle of a melee. There was the sound of laser fire and a distant explosion, and Janson’s heavy, relieved sigh. “TIEs were in the air before we got here,” he reported shortly. “Could use a hand. Watch your back, Six!”

Wedge pulled back hard on the stick, wheeling his X-wing about and putting on speed to go to Janson’s aid. Checking his HUD, he saw that it would be a few minutes before he and the other Rogues could get there, but there was something else he could do that might help even from a distance. “Gate, give me a wide band on comms,” he ordered.

His astromech whistled an affirmative.

_There are plenty of Imp pilots out there who don’t sleep the whole night through because of dreams about you being on their tails._ Tycho had told him that once, he remembered, before another difficult mission. It was true, too. And scared Imp pilots made mistakes.

“Attention, Imperial Forces,” Wedge’s tone was brash and confident—and coldly furious. “This is General Wedge Antilles of the New Republic Armed Forces, commanding Rogue Squadron. I have just destroyed your primary starfighter garrison and the interceptors that were stationed there. The planet Ukio is now under New Republic control. This is your only warning: stand down immediately or we will engage and destroy you.” He clicked off the audio pickup. “Did everyone get that, Gate?”

His astromech cheerfully whistled another affirmative, and Wedge shoved the anger down somewhere it wouldn’t distract him and skimmed his eyes over the holo of Iella as he made another practiced visual circuit of his surroundings and sensor board.

On his HUD, he watched as the distance to the half-squadron of Imperial fighters dancing with Wes, Gavin, Myn and Nrin closed to under seven klicks, and he toggled his weapons over to torpedoes and attempted a lock as his X-wing howled towards the furball. _Make the right choice Imps, and power down. Because if you don’t, your flying days are done. You’ve angered Rogue Squadron, and we are done running away._

* * *

Wedge’s communication came through in the clear on _Orthavan’s_ bridge, and Bel Iblis’ lips firmed together. “How much of their fighter contingent does Rogriss have left?” he asked, turning towards Midanyl.

She tapped on the display. “Assuming our most recent intelligence is accurate, and assuming that _Agonizer_ departed without any fighters, the Imperial fleet here should have no more than eight but no fewer than six squadrons of TIE fighters and interceptors remaining.” She nodded firmly. “Including the one the Rogues are currently engaged with.” She gestured at the display where the Republic’s starfighters were indicated. “We have a strong advantage in numbers now. Between all the ships in the fleet we’ve got _eighteen_ squadrons of fighters.” She smiled confidently, her expression cool. “Orders, General?”

Bel Iblis folded his arms across his chest. His one greatest concern had been that Rogriss would be ready waiting for them. He and Wedge still didn’t know how exactly Rogriss had found _Ession Strike_ to set up the ambush that had resulted in the corvette’s loss, but the possibility that Cracken’s wayward HoloNet slicer had set it up somehow hadn’t escaped either of them. There had been a chance that whatever Sithspawned black magic had cost them _Strike_ would make a repeat performance, but so far it didn’t appear that would be the case.

There was no time for second guessing.

“Bel Iblis to the fleet,” he growled. “Increase to flank speed. Take us in. And may the Force be with us.”


End file.
